INEXTRICABLE LINKS
by MidLifeCrisis
Summary: Revelations and changes are in store for Logan when a replacement for Jean is hired. He discovers how much his future connects to his past. Rated M for language and adult sexuality. Logan/OC. WIP.
1. Chapter 1

**INEXTRICABLE LINKS**

**_PROLOGUE_**

Standing watch for the past two and a half hours, his lean, toned leg muscles feel the strain. Sunshine beats down on the roof overhead promising to turn the small porch into a kiln as the day wears on. The merest kiss of a summer breeze does nothing for the sweat trickling down the back of his neck, staining the arm pits of his fatigues. He shakes one leg and then the other and blows at the fly buzzing rudely in his face. Bored nearly to death, he can't help feel sorry for himself.

A faceless voice, deep, controlled, with a hint of southern twang filters into his subconscious, "Good morning, Princess. Happy birthday!"

Through the screen door he sees a perky, blond haired girl peck a kiss on her father's cheek and exclaim, "I'm ten, I'm ten! That's double digits, isn't it Daddy?"

Fucking guard duty for some pain in the tush American officer and his too cute little family. Pulled out of sniper training for this! Well yeah, he'd 'earned' it, rather deserved it. The stunt he and a few other comrades in arms pulled the weekend before; well, let's say he should be grateful he wasn't sitting in the brig waiting on a court martial.

"Yes, it is and since it's such an _important_ birthday I've taken the morning off. We have six hours to do whatever you want."

"Really?" The girl falls silent for a few moments and says, "Can we go riding?"

The man laughs, "Why did I know that's what you'd say, Sassy-Girl?"

"Yay! I get to riding with my Daddy!" The girl, imitating a horse, prances around the kitchen table.

A woman enters the scene carrying a baby. Conversation mingles, the cooing baby, the girls pesky pony imitations, dishes clattering, a chair scraping against the linoleum floor, into an inseparable din.

Suddenly the man's voice rises above the racket, "Susan, make good use of all that energy. Take your brother and play with him over there." He points to an open space between a couch and a large bookcase.

Oh thank you Jesus! Or Major stiff shorts. Talk about your reasons for birth control: noisy, smart assed, insufferably cute little girls. Note to self, if I ever have a kid and it acts like that put in for hazardous duty in Siberia; unaccompanied tour.

The woman speaks, "Will, take this to our long-suffering sentry."

The man grumbles, "Aileen, how many times do I have to tell you, we don't have to feed and entertain security personnel."

"I know. But they work such long hours and put up with so much. It's just good manners."

"He's on _duty_," the man emphasizes.

"And you don't stop for a lunch break?" she retorts. "Oh never mind! I'll do it myself."

Sure he does. Eats nails peppered with gunpowder and gets his jollies spitting it back at lowlife corporals.

Balancing toast and a cup of coffee on a plate, she walks crisply to the screen door and bumps it open with her hip. "Here you go Corporal….," she reads his nametag, "…Logan. How are you on this gorgeous day?"

Snapping to attention, he replies, "Thank you, ma'am," with a guarded smile. He can't help noticing her thin dressing gown. Can't see through it but it sure outlines every curve. Can't miss the tents her nipples form in the clingy fabric. The Major scored himself a looker.

"You're welcome. Please, relax. You'll give yourself indigestion."

Or a hard on. "Yes ma'am," he replies with courtesy he doesn't feel. She has a nice scent too. Womanly. Fresh. Hint of baby powder, maybe and the unmistakable musk of recent sex. Guess the Major got lucky.

The woman retreats and sits down to her own breakfast and newspaper. Nondescript conversations flow through his consciousness before evaporating into nihility. He smirks, thinking on how those lonely officers wives help him earn his extra hazard pay.

A chair scrapes the flooring and the man struts briskly through the screen door. Snapping to attention, the sentry salutes. As per protocol, his superior returns the gesture, though dismissively. "Carry on," he growls.

"Yes sir." And fuck you too, bub. The young corporal nearly flashes the Bronx salute but quickly curbs the urge. No sense risking additional punitive duty.

Guard dogs penned not far off divert his attention. Scratching anxiously in the dirt pen their whining does nothing to soothe his aggravation. The birds abruptly cease flitting amongst the cherry trees and fall silent. Even the fly that tormented him has flown the coop. Something isn't right.

It isn't exactly a sound but more like a rumble; a sensation that seems to travel up from the ground creating a weird buzz in his head. His keen senses kick into over drive; every nerve ending a-flame. Suddenly he can't find his balance. The wooden porch beneath his feet sways and buckles. Earthquake!

Inside the small house glass crashes to the floor. Panicked screams trill from all directions. Fighting for balance, struggling to get into the house, "Everybody, under the table" he shouts to the terrified woman and children. Frozen with fear, no one moves.

Horrified, he notices a heavy bookcase teetering toward the children. So does the woman, who screams. A blink from disaster, no time to think, he acts. Shouting, "Get 'em!" he braces his body. Grunting as the weight of it slams him, stressing shoulder joints and sinew he thinks, mother fucker's as heavy as it looks.

The woman snatches her brood away in a rain of knick-knacks and books.

xXx

"Hmmm. Huh!" I jolt awake. What the hell was that? Not the usual blood and torture.

The clock on the dresser stabs my eyeballs. Four thirty! I groan into my pillow. Might as well get up. Only half an hour before the alarm goes off.

Sitting up, flexing my left shoulder, gotta chase pins and needles. Nightmares, phantom pain, whatever. Shit! If it ain't one thing it's another fuckin' up a good nights' sleep.

Trudging across the room, flipping the bathroom light switch makes me blink at the sudden brightness. Taking a long, satisfying piss, I ask myself, "Why the fuck am I up before the sun?" Turning the shower spigot to full hot, I answer myself, "Cuz ya got a real job." And so goes the usual early morning debate with myself: The virtues of this life versus life on the road. Food's better. Paycheck's predictable. Action? A little slow sometimes.

Aw, fuck it! Don't think. Just do it.

**_CHAPTER ONE_**

"Go, go, go! Cross over. Shoot!" The ball curves into the goal box seamlessly. "Way to go, guys. Great practice. Hit the showers."

Trailing behind the pack of raucous, high-fiving adolescent energy, it's tough for a hard ass like me not to feel pumped and proud over how they're shaping up. Couple more weeks of running their butts ragged and they'll do okay against our rivals.

Great practice and fantastic early spring day. Mother Nature emerging from her long hibernation stirs up the wanderlust. Damn! I've set a record; been at Xavier's for better part of a year. Come spring break, think I've earned myself a holiday. Gonna hit the road, commune with the natural elements.

A white Jaguar cruising past the far end of the field grabs my attention, "Nice!" 'Eighty five XJ. Now there's something I wouldn't mind havin' a piece of.

Out of the car steps a honey-haired babe; sleek and classy as the car she's driving. A restrained wolf whistle escapes my lips. Mmm-mmm, darlin'. Wouldn't mind having a piece of you either.

Sniffing the air the breeze carries her scent away. Shame. Bet she smells sweet as she looks. How long since I got laid? More n' a week! Damn, that might be a record. Gotta remedy that little oversight. Tonight.

Refocusing on the boys, "All right, hurry up. Next class's in fifteen minutes. Anybody reported late does wind-sprints with me tomorrow." For cruel effect, can't help adding insult, "At o-five hundred!"

Stepping into my small office near the gym I snicker. O-five hundred, yeah right. Hook up with Ginger at Murphy's tonight and ain't no fuckin' way.

xXx

I can't help staring at this gothic behemoth rising from the softly rolling terrain of North Salem, New York. The Xavier Mansion, a landmark and icon of an era long past, is now a school for gifted children. Gifted not in the usual sense of precocious little geniuses [though I'm sure there are some extremely bright kids on campus] but gifted with a genetic mutation setting them apart from the normal population.

Stepping through ornately carved double doors into a lavish foyer makes me feel like I'm walking into a time warp. I half expect to see a Vanderbilt or Rockefeller greet me in white tux and tails or empire waist tea gown. Whee! I really need to get a life.

What does greet me is a rag-tag group of baggy denim and t-shirted teenagers moving en masse through a corridor leading off the grand entrance. Catching the eye of a petite Asian girl, I ask, "Where may I find Professor Xavier?"

Cracking blue bubble gum, she stares vacantly and shrugs.

Though dressed far too provocatively for her age, she's a classically beautiful girl. Sadly, her attitude screams tough shell forged from neglect and abuse; bet my pediatrics board certification on it.

A taller, older girl, sporting a silver streak through her hair and covered from neck to ankle, nudges her classmate, "You're such a dorkfish." She pauses and replies, "I think the Professor's in his office."

"Where's that?"

"Come on. Follow…"

A door to our right opens. A boyishly handsome young man wearing red tinted glasses emerges from what I guess is an office or conference room. "Hi. I'm Scott Summers."

Offering my hand, "I'm Sue Harris. I have an appointment with Professor Xavier."

Scott glares past me and speaks sternly, "Miss Lee, dress code?"

The Asian girl cracks her gum boldly then pulls her blouse across her tank top.

"Button it," he demands.

"Fine," she huffs.

"And get a move on." He taps his wristwatch, "By my calculations you've got twenty seconds to get to your next class."

The girls slink off and the Asian girl gripes, "I swear he's compensating for something."

"Jubilation Lee!" he barks. "That's four demerits."

She mimics, "Jubilation Lee, ya da, ya da, ya da. Whatever!"

He turns to me, "Sorry. Come this way."

I nod and murmur, "Thanks."

Side by side, making our way along and elegantly paneled corridor, I'm searching for something to quell a minor case of pre-interview nerves. "I think we've met."

His face is neutral.

So much for that ice breaker. But it's true, we have met. "I remember. At the genetics conference; late last summer. You and Jean were off to do lunch between sessions."

He replies with a lukewarm, "Uh, right," which tells me he probably doesn't remember and doesn't want to look stupid. But it's the lack of eye contact that tells me I may have broached a taboo subject. Oh! Duh. Him and Jean together for a private lunch? Dollars to donuts they were a couple. Backtracking to save face, I offer, "I'm so sorry for your loss."

Scott pauses, eyes downcast and nods. He's just about to knock on a pair of doors when one opens, seemingly on its own. Charles Xavier, a bald yet dapper gent, smiles warmly from behind a pristine, spacious desk. There's a muted whir as he wheels across the room.

"Susan! I'm pleased to see you." His handshake is warm and strong. "Please sit down." He gestures to a deeply upholstered leather chair in front of his desk.

Scott Summers nod is clearly not meant for me but a split second later he glances at me once more, "Nice to meet you---again." He's got a sad smile on his face as he slips silently away.

"Professor, it's wonderful to see you again though I wish the circumstances were happier. I'm so sorry to hear about Jean. It's a terrible loss."

"Thank you." There's a moment of uncomfortable silence before he says, "Let me express my condolences to you...."

With effort, I resist tugging on the bottom of my jacket and wonder how he knows about my fathers' recent passing. "I appreciate that sir, but it's unnecessary."

If there's a way for a man to scrutinize politely, Xavier's the master and I feel compelled to explain my stance, "I haven't seen or spoken to my father in years. Our differences were....,"

I'm struggling for the right words, "…irreconcilable." I sigh, "At least he died in the line of duty."

Quirking his eyebrows, his mouth settles into an odd half- smile, "I understand." Clearing his throat, he shifts to business mode, "As you're aware, we're in need of a doctor, primarily for the children. Your reputation caring for Mutant children is well established…"

I blush, "Thanks."

"…and your experience with trauma, while not your specialty, is more than adequate."

"I've considered your proposal very carefully and as long as we are clear on the scope of responsibilities, I'm pleased as punch about this opportunity."

"Splendid!" he claps his hands together. "I knew I could count on you. Now, how about the grand tour?"

xXx

This is a lovely place…," I muse as we make our way through a wing of the mansion featuring a comprehensive, comfortable looking library and an enviable music room. "…for a child to grow up. Seems to me you've done everything possible to make a warm haven for the kids."

He smiles, "It will never take the place of a loving family but it's the best I can do." He pushes a waist high button on the wall and its panel slides away revealing an elevator.

"I know you're aware that we're more than a school here and it's important that you are familiar with our underground facilities." He boasts, "Our mission control, if you will"

He wows me with a vast subterranean complex replete with everything, including a couple kitchen sinks. Housed in a briefing or Situation Room, as he calls it, are computer banks that would give the Pentagon apoplexy. Located close by is a hangar, the likes of which I didn't realize possible and one of those 'doesn't exist' jets and a helicopter straight out of science fiction novelization.

Xavier's tone becomes brutally serious. "There _will_ come a time when the team will need your medical expertise. And I can't promise I won't need you for missions, but it would be the rarity, I hope"

"Without any mutant abilities, I'm concerned that I'd be a hindrance to the team."

"Not to worry. You'd never be asked to do something beyond your capabilities." We pause and clean metal doors hiss open. He says with flourish, "I think you'll find our medical facility impressive."

And how! State of the art and then some. Compact and quite complete from what I can see. "You've got that right, Professor. This is quite something. More than I was anticipating."

"Quite frankly, Susan, we don't often use this for the children. There's a suite of rooms above that had been Jean's office and examining rooms. It's far less intimidating."

Continuing the length of a sterile corridor, we soon halt in front of yet another metal door. It's circular with an X emblazoned proudly across its surface. He warns me to be still and positions himself just so. In seconds a retinal scan validates its master and the door eases aside. A catwalk projects into a spherical cavern comprised of what appears to be brushed metal rectangular tiles.

"This is Cerebro," he explains, sidling up to a deceptively simple looking console. "It's where I keep track of mutants all over the world."

I'm awestruck. "How does it work?"

"Quite simply, Cerebro amplifies brainwaves.

"That's amazing. Can anyone use it?"

Xavier frowns, "Indeed not. In the wrong hands, or mind, as it were, it causes grave neurological damage." Eyeing me with earnest, ice blue eyes, he warns, "Cerebro can kill."

Okee dokee.

"Let's go back up to the school," he says crisply, "Classes are nearly done and I'd like you to meet the others"

We join the others, casually assembled, in the conference room adjoining Xavier's office. He casts a sweeping glance and I feel something like a warm breeze flutter through my mind. I hear "Where's Logan?" but the Professor didn't utter a sound.

Oh that's right, he's a omega level telepath. How cool! Wonder who Logan is? Guess I'll find out sooner or later.

"He's in the gym," a cocoa complexioned, raven coifed woman offers.

xXx

It's my month to pull detention monitor and once word gets around, seems like I get a regular following. Guess it makes sense in a bass-ackward sort of way. Instead of piling on an extra hour's worth of study hall like Tight Ass Summers does, I get the pint sized scofflaws shooting hoops and talking. Doesn't take a degree in child psychology to figure that's what most of 'em need.

Right on time; ten minutes late, that is, my favorite frequent flyer slides silently between the doors. Other than Marie, Jubilation Lee, with her spunky, take no prisoners attitude, managed to get under my skin and thaw the ice block impersonating my heart.

Hollering, "Think fast!" I lob the ball. She snags it, dribbles once and sinks a perfect three pointer. "Every day this week, eh kid? What's it this time?" I read Summers' write up, so I know.

She shrugs and joins the other hardcore detention junkies bent on trying to outshoot each other on the basketball court.

Three days in a row, offenses that I'd classify as pre-meditated and stinking of frustration; the kid's cryin' for some intensive one on one. "Lee! Time out," I motion her to the bleachers.

She sneers but obeys and curls up hugging her knees. The scent of fear stops me dead in my tracks. "What gives, Short Stuff?" I ask gently as I can.

"What do you care?" she snaps.

Ain't my style to spread bullshit platitudes but I care - a lot. Crossing my arms over my chest, I go silent betting she'll spill her guts if I give her enough space.

"The whole freakin' school's out to get me," she whines while rolling blue bubble gum between her fingers.

"Why? Cuz ya got busted lippin' off to Mister Summers after he nailed ya for another dress code violation?" I can't handle the fruity blue gum stink, "Put that shit back in yer face or toss it."

She pops in into her mouth with a rude clack between her teeth.

"C'mon kid, some of the rules make a little sense." Geeze! I can't believe I'm saying this. Yeah, Summers deserves it ninety five percent of the time but…, "Ya can't go lippin' off."

"Don't gimme that crap, Wolvie!"

I hate that nickname. "Listen up," I growl. "You can call me Logan, coach, late for supper, but if you're gonna use my code name, it's Wolverine."

She pops a bubble the size of her face and twirls it around her tongue. "You're always telling Mister Summers where to get off," she shoots back.

She's got me on that but clichéd or not rank has its privileges. "Yeah, I do. But lemme give ya a clue. When we're out in the field, it's all business. Lippin' off can get somebody killed."

"Right. I tell him he's a dork and a butterfly gets its wings crushed."

Can't help snickering at the simplistic imagery, "Nah, calling him a dork won't but think about it this way. In a serious situation, if you're engaging your brain thinkin' up a load of bull to sling you might miss something that just might save your or somebody else's butt."

The fear subsides and she's gnawing on her lower lip; thinking I guess—I hope.

"Gosh, Wolv—Logan. It's just that Mister Summers is so, so-- uptight. I can't help it."

I laugh aloud, "Neither can I kid, neither can I. How 'bout this?" Oh man! This is so bad it's great, "How much would it drive him nuts if ya went the other way and talked nice to him?"

She's a smart little firecracker and her eyes dance as a wicked grin spreads across her cute face.

"Now about the dress code stuff. . ." A sweet thing like her don't need to prance around like a slut in training but how do I say this without preaching?

A buzz sets up and I hear my name echo inside my head. WTF! It's the boss man himself summoning me to the staff meeting I've blown off. "We'll um, burn that bridge later, kid. The Professor's callin' me."

xXx

Cordial introductions complete and almost everyone dismissed, the missing man finally makes his appearance and right off the bat I get a lesson in local politics when the Team Lead, Scott Summers, needles, "You know Logan, we don't set the clocks to daylight savings for a few weeks yet."

Blocking egress, the man called Logan sneers, "Hey One-Eye, you can stuff it where the sun don't shine."

Breaking a stalemate, the Professor clears his throat, "Thank you Scott." For a second I think Scott and this new guy might actually butt horns—if they had horns anyway.

Charles doesn't drop a beat, "Logan, please come in. Meet Susan Harris, D.O. . . ,"

Drawing a deep breath, tall, brooding and buff's cocoa brown eyes give me the once over and I'm fairly certain a virtual undressing.

"Hi," he says, his voice rich and sensual with just maybe a touch of irritation? Sarcasm?

There's something very different about this guy: Untamed, powerful, mysterious. Scruffy but drop dead handsome at the same time. Willing myself not to fluster, I lock my gaze on his and extend my hand, which he seems to return with reluctance.

Xavier's voice filters through, "...our new pediatrician and interim Team physician."

"D O?" he says, still clasping my right hand.

Did I mention his voice is smooth as velvet? "Doctor of Osteopathy," I explain.

"Right."

"Xavier continues, "Susan this is Logan. He's our athletics director and along with Scott, handles security"

I'm acutely aware this handshake is lingering and I pull my moist - make that sweaty - palm from his, "Pleased to meet you."

He graces me with a secretive half-smile and slight nod.

The door closes on its own again. Oh! So that's how he does it. Remote control on his wheel chair. Professor Xavier edges closer, "Logan, from the resume' I forwarded, I'm sure you've thoroughly briefed yourself on Doctor Harris' qualifications."

Logan shrugs, "Yeah." He reminds me of my sons responding to inquiries about homework.

"Thus, you're aware she has access to comprehensive DNA databases. If you haven't an objection, I'd like to task her to research your background."

I think I catch a wisp of surprise on Logan's face but it rapidly transforms to open cynicism, "Sure. And that's gonna be better than what ya've already tried?"

"Simply another avenue of exploration; one which I've not the time to pursue."

Sharp and assessing, Logan's gaze scours me and I don't think he's debating whether I wear panties or a thong this time, "So what's it all about?" He sounds suspicious.

Why do I suddenly feel like a cat dancing on a hot plate? Who's the doggone professional here?

I explain, "There's DNA typing that isolates Mitochondrial DNA."

Arms folded across his chest, he rolls his eyes and challenges, "So what?"

"Mitochondrial DNA is definitive whereas more common testing from the paternal standpoint is much less so."

"Hey doc, I ain't got a P H D from some schmansy university. Plain English, ok."

"Oh, ok. Basically, I may be able to discover who your mother is from the test."

His reply, "Uh huh," is as jaundiced as the look on his face.

Xavier asserts, "Logan, what she's offering is concrete evidence of who you are."

"Yeah? Well I ain't holdin' my breath."

I can almost hear the cogs turning.

"Ok. What do I gotta do?"

At least he sounds a smidgen placated.

"I just need a blood sample."

He grimaces, "Oh yeah, docs are all alike. Poke, prod…"

"Oh puhleeze! Don't tell me you freak out over having your blood drawn."

What a scathing expression! Me thinks I overstepped. Tread on his ego perhaps?

"Just tell me when and where," he rumbles. Hand on the door knob, he pauses, "Nice meetin' ya doc. See ya 'round," and slips silently out of the room.

"There's a lot to his story, isn't there?" I muse to Professor Xavier.

He nods. "I'll brief you on everything known and of course there's data in his medical records you'll find useful. For now, we need to attend to the final order of business."

"That would be?"

"Contracts."

xXx

This new doc ain't Jean. Still, that honey blond hair, killer blue eyes and curves in all the right places, she stacks up pretty damn well. Besides, she's got a honey of a car. Wonder what I'll ride first? The babe or the car?

Running my hand over the tan rag top, a buzz sets up in the back of my mind. Why the hell's a memory stirring now? Closing my eyes, it comes into focus.

Cruising like a bat out of hell down the open road in; what is it? White convertible? Yeah. Jag? Nope. Oh yeah, nineteen sixty eight, maybe nine Lotus. Elan, I think. I can picture the black leather interior; layout of the controls; feel of the stick shifting through the gears. I can almost hear a faint echo of her perfectly tuned engine. My god! Did I really own something like it? 'Sixty-nine; how old was I? No fuckin' clue.

Thanks to Stryker, my memory's a mélange of haunted images; pieces of a jigsaw puzzle that defies a solution. Even with Charles' voodoo most of what's pieced together's been my doing. How the fuck does he think this chick can really help? And what if she does? Jean's death at Alkalai Lake was enough to prove the value of knowing ain't worth it.

Ow! The buzz is stronger; stabs a spike right between my eyes. Massaging my forehead, I remember the car's going way too fast around a sharp, blind curve. It's slippery. Rain? Snow? Not sure. The car crosses the line. Jezzus, no! I slam the breaks, try to correct but it clips an oncoming station wagon sending it into a spin. The Lotus goes airborn. There's a telephone pole coming at me. Glass implodes, shredding my face. My body slams against the steering wheel, ricochets back into the seat. Crushed and twisted steel wraps me in a coffin.

From behind, "You're a car aficionado?" shocks me free of the specter. I spin around, claws almost ejecting. Whoa! Stand down. It's her.

"I'm sorry," she retreats a step. "Didn't mean to startle you."

Idiot. Lost yourself. No way I'm admitting she got the drop on me. "Know a nice one," I look her up and down, "when I see one, darlin'."

"I'll make sure I snap a Polaroid for you."

Hello. Earned that come back but she don't seem pissed. More like amused.

"You like it?" She's definitely referring to the car.

It's killing me not to fire back a smart ass reply. But, I better not push my luck too far so I nod, "It's in damn fine condition."

"Thanks. I try to save it for nice weather." She glances off to the western sky, "Though I think I better skee-daddle. Looks like this taste of springtime's about to blow away."

"Yep," I say, inhaling deeply. "It'll snow later tonight."

"Is that the weather report?"

Pointing to my nose, "Nope. My prediction."

She's surprised, "How's that?"

"Heightened sense of smell. Can sense pressure changes, too."

"Ah! Your mutation?"

Pointing a finger like a pistol, "Right. You're not."

"Not what?"

"A Mutant."

"No. How did you..? Oh wait; you can smell that too?"

"Right again."

"Impressive." The wind whips up. "Brrr!" she complains, pulling her jacket close. "I'd love to hear more but I really hafta scoot."

She slips the key into the lock and just to prove I ain't a total jerk off, I reach around her and open the door. Gets me up close and personal to imprint her scent.

A restrained smile plays on her lips, "Thanks." She slides into the seat.

I shoot her a wink, "Take care of the car, darlin'."

"No problem, _dude_."

She roars off and I can tell she's checking me out in the rear-view mirror so I give a casual salute. Shoving my hands in my pockets and heading toward my office, I'm thinking she likes me.

XXX

_a/n. First business: Disclaimer. Marvel owns everybody except Susan and a few other OC's appearing later. I make no profit except for the joy of writing. _

_Some of you reading this are undoubtedly thinking you've read this before. You have but please read my profile for an explanation. Now, I must admit I crave reviews. I also have to clarify that a crush of reviews [or lack of] will not have an impact on the pace of updates. Blame the Muse; she's a w[b]itch. I'd especially like to hear from those of you who have read the original version of this story MORE THAN YESTERDAY LESS THAN TOMORROW. How do you feel about my changing POV? How do you feel about my leaner[concise] style of writing? How do you feel about cutting exposition and replacing it with action and dialog? How do you feel about my writing Logan's character closer to old style comic verse than movie verse? _


	2. Chapter 2

CHAPTER TWO

"Good afternoon, Logan." Charles Xavier is eyeing my bloody and tattered shirt with a vaguely disapproving frown. "You're looking a bit worse for the wear. Eventful night?"

So much for staying under the radar. Who the hell am I kidding? Tough to do when the boss is a world-class telepath. I shrug. "No more'n usual."

That's a bit of a stretch considering it's not my habit to get plugged by a coked out pimp on a Friday night. But the mother was messing where he should'na been. Both thumbs and index fingers chopped to nubs, the cocksucker ain't ever gonna handle a Saturday Night Special again.

His weary, "Indeed," tells me he ain't happy with the peep inside my head. But, he plows ahead just the same, "Might I trouble you with a task this afternoon?"

There's no anxiety coming off him so it's a fair guess whatever he wants is gonna be the menial variety. Hope t'fuck it ain't babysitting again.

"No, it's not," he replies to my unspoken thought. "Doctor Harris has some personal effects she'd like moved from her home. I'd like you and Vic to assist her."

Oh ho! The curveliscious blonde? An opportunity to hit on her? I'm there. "Yeah, I guess so. Gimme a couple to get cleaned up."

"Much appreciated," He wheels away smiling like the cat that swallowed the canary.

xXx

Cruising down the boulevard, Vic interrupts my funk, "You're a man of few words."

"Huh?" I rub my eyeballs with my fists and explain, "Busy night."

"Losin' your edge, amigo?"

Snorting, I flip a friendly bird.

A hearty laugh booms in the cab of his truck, "Uh huh. That's what I figured. Bird doggin' the local talent wears on ya after a while."

No. Getting plugged in the liver with lead puts a crimp in my style but he don't need to know that.

"So, what's your take on the new doc?" he asks after a mile or so.

"Going by what I saw on her resume', I guess she's got the quals." It's what I didn't get to see that sticks in my craw. Citing privacy issues, Charles alone runs background checks on personnel. All Summers and I saw was a tidy little career history on the woman. That's nice but it's the personal stuff that needs independent investigation. I've told him it's fucked up and gonna bite him one of these days.

"Not what I'm talking about."

"Right. Dunno. I know she ain't Mutant. Not even latent."

"How'd ya get a handle on that so quick?"

"Nose knows, bub."

Vic laughs, "Think that'll make a difference."

"Dunno." What I do know is she ain't got a prejudiced bone in her body; 'least not for Mutants and she don't seem to be working any sort of angle.

"Si. Seems like a nice lady. Easy on the eyes, too."

"Mmm-hmm."

Vic parks his pickup in her driveway, "Nice place."

I just grunt. Nice place is an understatement. Ain't Xavier's mansion but it ain't no Hoboken row house either.

Suddenly I'm thinking my chances of scoring a successful hit might be somewhere around slim to none. She's gorgeous, educated and refined. Lives in a big old house, high-class neighborhood. She's way outta my league. It'll be the same old shit that Jean flung at me. I ain't the take-home type of guy.

Fuck it, she's probably a bitch on wheels once ya get to know her. "Let's git 'er done," I say and slam the trucks' door.

A minute or two later there's a gangly teenage boy gawking at us at the front door. Ah shit! A kid. Slim to none chance of scoring might be at zilch. Didn't smell it on her the other day but a kid probably means a husband.

Before the kid opens his mouth, we hear, "Who's at the door?" and she appears carrying a dishtowel.

The princess don't look so royal with her hair pinned up in a pony tail, in jeans, sneakers and a maroon sweatshirt with TAMU in gold letters across that rack of hers. I'm no fashion cop but maroon ain't her color. Still, the way those jeans hug her hips she rates up there on my fuckability scale. What the fuck is a TAMU?*

"Oh great," she says with a smile that makes me want to smile back. "Come on in, y'all. Matt this is Misters Marquez and Logan from the new place I'm working." Another boy, a little older, pokes his head up from the couch. "Guys, my sons, Matthew; and Travis is the couch potato over there."

Leading us through an expansive family room to the kitchen, she seems just as genuine and friendly as the other day in Charles' office, "Y'all want coffee?"

The inside's just as classy as the outside with polished wood floors, expensive carpets, quality furnishings. Yet, it feels comfortable and lived in with dirty dishes in the sink, discarded smelly sneakers piled in a corner, a ripe and stained athletic jersey draped over a chair. I smell a couple cats skulking somewhere. No dog.

She sets two gargantuan coffee mugs on the pass through between the kitchen and family room. Guess our answer to coffee's a yes.

xXx

Moving a couple boxes of personal effects turns out to be an all-afternoon gig of helping her re-arrange Jeans old clinic and office. Felt damn strange doin' it. Sorta like defacing somebody's personal space even if it is probably time. Move on, closure or whatever the hell. Once we got into it, her gentle, deferential way made it almost easy.

Not sure Scott feels the same and in his boots, I'd be just as torn up. I can't remember details to save my ass but something in my gut tells me I've lost the love of my life. At least he's got memories.

Now, cozying up at the local pizza joint, I watch her raise a wedge to those pouting lips and bite into it. Some of the sauce smears the corner of her mouth and she grins, delicately wiping it off with a deft touch of her index finger. I watch, hypnotised as her finger slips between said lips and she sucks off the sauce.

It is warm in here?

Talk about your contrasts. Next, she takes a sip of beer and I damn near bust a gut to keep from laughing at the foam mustache on her upper lip.

"Oh fudge!" she mocks herself and dabs the creamy foam away with a napkin. "Never could handle my beer."

Ain't exactly what I'm thinking imagining those lush lips giving me more than just a once over.

Didn't hear what the hell Vic just said but Sue's bulky sweatshirt can't hide the motion of those firm, high perched breasts as she laughs.

Down boy! Got the start of a major hard on.

She ain't gonna be easy but that's ok. Develop the right strategy, deploy tactics, I'll have her. Might take a little time but I ain't come across a woman I couldn't get to spread her legs — eventually.

"Enough about me," she says. Reaching across the table, her slender, neatly manicured fingers flutter against my forearm.

For an 'nth of a second I tense, instinct forcing me to recoil from uninvited contact. It's the scent of sincere curiosity that salvages the moment.

Violet eyes narrow speculatively, "Where do you call home, Logan?"

This is fuckin' stupid! My throat's dry and I feel like a tongue-tied school kid. Reaching for a draught of foaming, golden courage, I swallow half my beer and reply, "Where ever I park my bike."

Her eyes widen surprised and she laughs again, "That makes it convenient. No really, where do you come from?"

Nosy little broad. Don't like being reminded my memory's got more holes in it than a range target. My reply, "Ain't that what Charles hired you to find out?" comes out rough.

She shrinks back, eyes averted and I smell embarrassment all over her.

Damn! Tone it down asshole. "Truth is; I'm not sure. Canada, maybe."

Mollified, she smiles again "That seems right. Definitely sound like a northerner. What kind of bike?"

"Eighty nine Harley soft-tail," I boast.

From the look on her angel face, she's got no clue. But she's a trooper and wades right in, "You lost me on that one. Compare it to my boys' dirt bikes."

"What they got?"

"Umm, Suzuki's I think."

Fuckin' ricers. "That'd be like comparin' a Hummer to a Mini Cooper 'r somethin'."

"Oh! Never mind then."

"'S okay," I say between swills of brew. "Wanna ride mine, darlin'?"

Vic chokes on his beer. Pizza stops dead in the air on the path to Electra's mouth.

Aw shit! That didn't come out right. Double minor penalty, bub.

Slowly, Sue chews on a piece of crust. Looking me dead in the eye, her lips curve into a coy smirk, "Probably not."

She don't smell exactly amused and turns her attention to Electra. They start yapping something about their shared Texas roots.

Under the table something bangs my shin from Vic's direction. I've seen that mustache of his twitch before. Glaring back, I don't need him to rub my nose in it.

Small talk ain't my forte' and I'm thinking it's time to fold 'em and move along. One problem. Transportation's dependent on Vic and Electra. Damn if it ain't snowing again, too. What the hell? Since I'm stuck, might as well order another round of brew. Just gonna sit back, shut my mouth and hope to keep my dumb ass outta the penalty box.

xXx

Stretching my arms to the ceiling and groaning, if I have to peruse one more chart my eyeballs are going to melt. My backside is stuck to this chair and I can't help but glance uneasily before inelegantly picking a blue jean wedgie out of my derrière.

It's so quiet. Professor Xavier really puts the lid down on this place. Other than the hum of my computer and the soft melody from a piano coming from the adjacent music room, the place is quieter than a chapel.

Somebody's playing Moonlight Sonata and really knows their stuff. Me thinks I need to check it out. Padding in my socks down the dimly lit hall, I'm trying to guess the concertmaster's identity. I freeze just outside the music room's double wide entry. It's dark except for a dimmed chandelier suspended over the concert grand. Well I'll be!

Pausing, he lifts his chin. I can see his nostrils flare ever so slightly. He looks in my direction and quits playing, "Evenin'," Logan's voice rumbles deep and smooth. "Didn't mean to bother ya," he says pushing back from the piano.

"You weren't." Why am I blushing? Sure hope it's dim enough he can't see, "I...I needed a break and...That's lovely. Don't stop."

He shrugs, "Don't know if I remember the rest." Dark eyes, stare past me as he continues from where he left off.

Strolling closer and leaning against a nearby velvet settee: Wow! I realize there's no sheet music. He's playing by rote. How unexpected; particularly after being briefed by Charles and Electra.

My gosh! Scruffy and tough looking aside, he's handsome. And will ya look at those eyes! They smolder with mystery and intelligence; animal magnetism. Tranquil and graceful at the keyboard, he's got musician hands; long, strong, nimble fingers.

I feel a flutter in my breast imagining his hands –

I've lost my mind! He's not my type. He has a proclivity toward boorish innuendos. He's a borderline head case. It's my rule not to get involved with direct co-workers.

He's a hunk! I think I want to get to know this guy.

He finishes and I say, "You've got talent. Did you ever study music?"

He makes eye contact and shrugs. Oh, those eyes! Brimming with depth and soul; yet strangely, at this moment, pain and loss as well. Why am I so attuned to this man?

His truncated reply, "Maybe. Long time ago, in another life," echoes the despondency in his eyes. "Used to have a guitar but it got blown to hell with my truck. Ain't got another one since." He gestures, "The piano's handy."

"What happened to your truck?"

"Wrecked it; propane tank caught fire."

"Propane tank? What the heck kind of truck?"

"Old pickup with an attached camper."

I nod, intuition warning this isn't the time for details, "Can you play anything else?"

Again, there's that shrug. Mmm,mmm! He makes the gesture uncannily sensual.

"What do you teach again; music?" I ask teasing, just as he finishes another flawless performance, something bluesy, the title slips my mind.

He snorts and briefly grins, "Nah. But didn't ya say you studied piano in what? High school?"

Did I babble about that? Must've.

He's got a sly expression and pats the piano bench, "C'mere. You play."

I must be as red as the carpet beneath the piano, "No way! It's been ages since…"

"Whatcha scared of darlin'?"

"Making an idiot out of myself."

"Never happen." He reaches out and snags my sleeve, "Have a seat."

"Fine," I huff.

Plunking out a simple children's song I wonder what his game is. Why am I letting myself be manipulated?

"Hey, I'm impressed." He leans close just brushing my left shoulder, "Betcha even know this one," and plays out the harmony to Heart and Soul.

I laugh. Nudging his elbow I add the melody.

We manage to mangle it and he laughs; the warmth of it sends a shiver down my spine. And what an irresistible smile. The next thing I know, his arm wraps around my shoulder and he nuzzles my hair.

Whoa! Hold on sec, cowboy. Might want to get to know you but I'm a slow mover.

His sweet, warm breath raises goose bumps on the back of my neck. Strange for me, I can't distance myself; mentally or physically, "Hey, gimme some space."

He does; taking up the spot where I'd been standing. I play my old school-day recital standby, Canon in D. The music comes easily but I find myself needing to concentrate on the keyboard.

He's looking at me again; the same way he did in Charles' office the other day. Wonder if I should break into a piano version of Strip Tease?

"There ya go," I say while holding out the last notes.

His mouth curves in a casual grin and he gestures thumbs up.

"Why thank you, kind sir," I reply with a goofy curtsy that earns me a chuckle. "But for now the show's over. It's late and I've got early rounds tomorrow."

His smile persists, "How 'bout I walk ya to your car?"

"No bother," I reply heading for my office.

He trots alongside, "Not a bother. 'Sides," he wiggles his brow menacingly, "Ya never know what dangers lurk in the parking lot."

I think I'm in more danger alone with you. "Suit yourself," I answer smartly.

While I shut down my computer and slip on my shoes he doesn't say a word. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, casually observing my every move. There's a weird tension building and it's making me nervous.

He helps me with my coat. "So what do ya do at rounds?" he asks, slightly easing my jitters.

"Follow up with my patients."

"Ain't there clinic for that?"

"Yes… and no. I've got two little ones hospitalized. Plus, I'm on call starting at seven a.m. That usually means I'll have at least a couple newborns to check on."

He nods and we walk in silence toward the parking area, our breath steaming in the cold winter air.

"Keeps ya hoppin', eh?" he finally comments.

"You have no idea."

Flashing the most intriguing lopsided grin, he shoves his hands into his pockets, "Where's the Jag?"

"Oh! Now I know why the escort," My offense isn't real. "Don't fret," My tone's conciliatory as I rummage through my purse for the keys to my trusty mom-mobile, a late eighties Volvo station wagon. "She's tucked safe and warm in my garage."

He leans in close. Before I know it, the softest, warmest hand caresses my cheek. Before I can react, I feel my chin tenderly raised. My eyes lock into compelling brown eyes as his lips brushing mine like a whisper. He slips his arm around my waist and pulls me close. My backbone turns to iron while my knees turn to rubber.

He doesn't back down. Before I can take a breath, push back, I'm snug in his arms. His mouth closes over mine, his lips molding, exploring, his tongue prying.

Trembling and ignoring frantic signals from the rational portion of my brain to stop before this goes too far, I nip at his lower lip, tracing the moist softness with my own tongue then gently suck it.

With a low growl, he seizes an advantage and plunges in. He's persuasive; carnal yet tender. Why I'm not frightened out of my wits, I don't know. He tastes delicious. His arms feel protective.

Convinced and aroused, I melt into his broad chest. "Mmmm," I sigh into his mouth. My arms encircle his neck and my fingers tangle in silken, thick curls at the nape of his neck.

His strong hands smooth up and down my back, cup my posterior, grinding my pelvis against the solid, thick bulge in his jeans.

My god, he's gotta be huge!

Cramininny! What's next? Drop onto the hood of my car and do it like horny high-school kids?

No!

Adult practicality comes knocking. It's cold. It's not exactly private. I don't know this guy from Adam.

This isn't me. I DON'T OPERATE THIS WAY.

Eep. Eep. Eep. Eep. Praise be my pager service!

Pushing against his chest with the flat of my palm, our mouths separate with a wet pop, "I hafta get that."

xXx

He shoots … and … buzz. Time out! What the fuck?

I had her. Right here. In my arms. Warm, definitely interested if the sweet musk radiating from her ripe body was any clue. Another minute or two and instead of watching her drive away we'd be hand in hand going through the back entrance to my room.

Yeah, well maybe. Underneath her lady-like veneer is a simmering cauldron of passion. Stirred her up for sure but she ain't gonna let me have a taste; not yet anyway.

I shove my hands in my pockets, adjust myself to relieve the pressure and make my way back to the mansion. Debating with myself what to do about the rest of the evening, one thing is certain; a cold shower ain't gonna cut it tonight. Might be pushing too fast if I hop on my bike and follow doc hottie so I guess it's plan B.

xXx

Oh my gosh! I'm shaking. I don't believe that guy.

Oh shut up! Be honest. It's not like he wasn't throwing out signals. The time to cut and run was in the music room when he got cozy.

Did I?

Noooo.

And so I drive down the road playing devil's advocate with myself.

He's a good kisser.

Delicious but that's not the point. It was inappropriate.

Why? We're both adults.

Who are going to be working together. There's a 'scrip for a big mess.

And who got to drooling and said to herself I want to get to know this guy?

Yeah. Well---slower.

Oh wah! Admit it; I'm flattered.

And turned on.

So, what to do?

Go home. Grab a glass of wine and take a bubble bath.

With the vibrator.

This is crazy; debating my own conscience. I really need to get a personal life again but it's been so long. I just don't know if I'm ready for the roller coaster. Well, if this guy thinks he's gonna get anywhere with me he's gonna play by my rules.

xXx

Forty five minutes later, I'm sidled up to a greasy bar in a working class part of town swilling down my first frosty long neck. Being a Sunday night the crowd is thin, fairly quiet and inclined to mind their own business and that suits me fine. Even the tunes are mellow with nothing harder than the Grateful Dead sounding like they _are_ dying over the shitty sound system.

Damn! That woman's got me turned inside out and tied up in knots. Between the other afternoon's colossal flame out with my big mouth and now coming onto her like a sex-starved dog, I'm pitching a no-hitter.

My usual spot opens up; a booth near a row of dart boards. Easing into the worn and cracked vinyl bench, generous Ginger cruises by, "The usual?" she greets with her customary warm smile.

Returning a grin, I nod and put up two fingers.

She returns with a pair of amber colored bottles and sets them in front of me then throws a curve by not settling into the seat opposite me.

Takes a while to catch her eye, "Shift almost over, darlin'?"

She replies, "Half an hour," hands me the tab and make her way to another table.

"Want company tonight?" I ask as she glides by and picks up a wad of cash.

She returns with change, "Already got a date."

"So, dump him."

"Don't wanna do that, Logan. I've been seeing this guy on and off for a while; though mostly on." With that, she's off, tending another table.

I shrug. It's a free country. She can hook up with whoever she wants whenever she wants.

She mops up a table next to me, "He's a nice guy and a lot more predictable then another guy I know." I can't miss that jab or the emotions spewing from her pores.

Nice? Predictable? Collared and whipped is more like it. I raise my bottle in mock salute, "Whatever floats your boat, Gin."

Swilling down the last dregs, Gingers' words bobble uneasy in my mind. Nice guy….predictable…. Haven't I heard those words before? Yeah, well last time I tried that what'd it get me?

The aged vinyl creaks as I slide out of the booth. Ambling toward the exit, I sidle up to Ginger working a cash register at the end of the bar. "See ya, darlin'," I murmur in her ear while sliding my hand across her trim ass.

She stiffens for a second, her scent mildly indignant but then she cranes her head sideways and wistful smile on her lips, "Uh huh. Next blue moon, right Logan?"

"Sure thing."

Laterizing the bar and the broad, I straddle my bike, roll my shoulders and take stock. Ok, do I wanna chance strike three tonight checking out another bar? No, not really. Truthfully, I ain't all that disappointed Ginger has other plans. Besides, considering who's really on my mind, anybody else is just sloppy seconds.

I kick start my Harley and put it in gear. Time for plan C; Danger Room session followed by a shower and a close encounter with rosy palm and her sisters.

XXX

_*TAMU- initials for Texas A&M University_


	3. Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

This new gym Charles built, its funding compliments of the hefty settlement from the government after Stryker's goons tore up the mansion, is perfect except for one thing. It's new. It'll take months for the place to quit reeking. Most folks relish that new car or fresh paint aroma. Me; I'd rather inhale carbolic acid.

This morning the gym is the lesser evil. Cold as a polar bears' ass and a fresh coating of sleet outside, I'm giving my morning combatives class a break. They've earned it, working their butts off and keeping complaints to a minimum when I push 'em to the breaking point.

Stink aside, this is a first rate set up. Weight room, Nautilus equipment, treadmills, rowers, you name it. A yoga and a dance studio put smiles on the ladies faces. True to form Charles spared no expense including customized equipment he trains on a couple times a week. Gotta give the guy serious cred for his taste in personal trainers. Dominique can work me over any time she wants.

Only thing missing is an indoor ice hockey rink. Eh, maybe it's in next year's construction budget

From my vantage point, I can look through a glass wall of windows down to the swimming pool. I hear furious splashing, Vic Marquez' whistle and his authoritarian bark as he rides herd on the swim team.

"Pay attention!" I demand of my class, progressing into another series of warm up stretches.

Movement below catches my eye. It's her. She sheds a pale blue warm up jacket revealing a matching swim suit. Modest, athletic cut that it is; it can't hide her fine hips and shapely thighs. She'd look good in a paper sack.

She strides across the deck, pauses poolside and sticks a toe into the water. Waving, her lips move to say hello to Vic.

I'm mesmerized watching her stretch and bend with feline grace. Christ! Those firm, high perched knockers are to die for. Her nipples tenting the fabric of her suit ain't the only thing hard. Down boy!

Wind milling toned arms, she glances up at the treadmills, smiles and waves. Electra and Storm return enthusiastic greetings. Her eyes track along the glass wall. Suddenly the broad smile turns guarded and her cheeks turn red. Spotted me, I guess.

Ok bub, after your colossal screw-ups the last couple encounters it wouldn't be real smart to add another. She responds to my slight nod with a visible rise of her chest, a sigh I guess, and dives into the water.

Damn! She's beautiful and fast. And damn! I better get my mind back on the class.

"Pair up," I tell them and repeat the command in Japanese.

The scent of the kid's joy over practicing basic throws is thick and stimulating and helps take my mind off another sort of stimulation; like ogling doctor delicious.

"Lee!" I holler at the capable but distractible imp. "Move like that and you're gonna end up with a busted neck."

Gutsier than most of the kids, except maybe Marie, Jubilation Lee sticks out her tongue and snips, "Oh, what now Wolv—um, coach?"

For what's gotta be the zillionth time, the kid maneuvers me into a one on one demonstration. It's our little game and so far no harm's come of it. I'll take her games over some other girls' misguided to occasionally down-right lewd attempts to attract my attention.

Don't do kids. Never did. Never will. And at my age, whatever the hell it is; kid to me is anything under thirty.

My class finishes before she's through with her swim. For a nanosecond I consider taking a swim myself then nix the urge. My adamantium bones render me more like a brick in the water and I'm hesitant to crowd her. Instead, I break for outdoors and a brisk, solitary run.

My minds running just as hard as my body. Can't get that woman outta my head. I'm fuckin' obsessed! Tail doesn't get to me like hers is. I really don't wanna think I've scared her off but can't shake the feeling my come-on the other night might've been strike three.

Maybe not! She's just come from the gym heading toward the mansion and a plan forms up in my head. What have I got to lose?

"Susan!" I holler.

Wind's blowing her scent away from me so I can't tell if she hears me or not but she keeps walking. I call her name once more and pick up the pace.

She hears and stops in her tracks, "Good morning." Her expression's cool but her pheromones ain't.

"Yeah, it is." Suddenly my plan seems lame as a school boy's.

"Is there something you need?" she asks in a professional tone.

"Um, no. I mean, yes." I take a breath to steady my thoughts. Don't smell anger. Irritation maybe and definitely confusion. "I was out of line the other night and..."

She cuts me off, her voice level and crisp, "Yes, you were."

"And I just want to say…"

Oh man! The words I'm sorry stick in my craw. "I, uh, …didn't mean anything by it."

Her cheeks redden as her expression turns to stone and I catch a whiff of barely checked humiliation and fury.

Oh geeze! Fucked up again. "No! Darlin'. . ."

"I'm not your darlin'," she hisses.

"Right . . . No . . . What I mean . . . Sue . . . I . . . don't mean any disrespect." Say it ya stupid loser, "I'm sorry."

By her scent I can tell the piss off meter goes down a couple notches and the tension drains from her face. "Apology accepted," she mutters and walks away. Humiliation ain't a pleasant perfume on her.

For a second I stand here like an idiot without a clue where to go with this; how to make things right. "Can I have a chance…." I trot alongside her like a puppy looking for a treat. "To back things up a little?"

She doesn't say anything for what seems like forever. It's givin' me a case of acid indigestion and I don't get heartburn. I can't believe I'm doing this. Crawling to a woman!

"Maybe," You could make ice from her tone. "What does backing things up mean?"

Oh hell! What's it mean? "Can I . . . take ya out sometime?"

"Maybe."

Didn't tell me to fuck off and die so let's shoot for the moon, "How about dinner Friday?"

"Hmm. Not sure. I'll have to check my schedule. Can I get back to you?"

I don't smell an outright lie on her but something tells me she knows her schedule. What the hell am I getting myself into? Forget it. I ain't playin' games. Sensibilities returning fast, I reply, "In your own sweet time, darlin'."

Scoring the last word, I leave her to decide the next move. I'll work on convincing myself I don't give a shit what her answer is.

xXx

It's four thirty and the clinic's quiet except for Electra. I hear shuffling and rustling and mild Spanish invectives drifting out from the storage closet. NPR's All Things Considered streaming from my computer nearly drowns it out.

It's been a smooth first day; almost boring at times. Not that I haven't kept busy familiarizing myself with students medical histories, the physical set up of the clinic itself and noting changes I want. All in all, most everything's shipshape and I'm still pinching myself over the good luck to practice medicine among a micro-community of X gene positives.

"You'll be in Wednesday afternoon?" Electra's question startles me but it's a welcome interruption.

The psych eval I'm poking through is disturbing and that's putting it mildly, "Yes. Probably around one thirty or two if past history is any guide."

"So what is it you do on Wednesday mornings?"

"Depends. If I'm very lucky and the weather is nice I get a round of golf or tennis match in. If I'm not so lucky it's grand rounds or teaching CEU's. And then there's staff meetings or committee meetings or seminars. You get the idea."

She nods and laughs, "And Vic keeps pushing me to go to medical school. No thank you." Locking the closet, she adds "I'm all through. Anything you need before I go?"

"No thanks. I'm going to finish reading and then I'm gone. Oh, before I forget; I've got one of those informational dinners tomorrow night. Merck is pushing a new vaccine for HPV. Wanna come along?"

She smiles broadly, "Si, si. This being a school, the drug reps don't come by and if one does they don't offer freebies. We don't order enough to be worth their time."

"I could go to those damn things seven nights a week and twice on Sunday. Since I don't have to attend for you to, I'll cut you in on the hospital invites. And," I wink, "most are open to spouses"

"Free meal or not, Vic would hate it and I'd never get him to dress up for it."

My turn to laugh, "I'll pick you up at six."

She leaves and I return to reading this psychological profile.

_. . .these recollections take the form of dreams, visual and auditory hallucinations, and dissociative flashbacks and leave him in a state of heightened arousal, indicated by a racing heart, panting, sweating, headache, nausea and occasional psychosomatically induced vomiting. His attempts to avoid the memories and triggers are futile._

_Given his history of repeated violent trauma and subsequent retrograde amnesia, avoidant behavior, hyper-vigilance bordering on paranoia and his experiences with_ _intrusive symptoms and hyper-arousal, a diagnosis of PTSD is appropriate._

_In addition, an extensive history of withdrawal, irritability, feral physical and behavioral/sociological manifestations, circumstance specific violent behavior and given the aforementioned trauma, a mood and/or personality disorder cannot be ruled out…._

Date this guy! What the heck am I thinking?

…_. Because he has articulated bouts of alternating moodiness and apathy with occasional suicidal thoughts, a major depressive disorder seems diagnostically appropriate. Because features of mania are……_

"Hey doc . . ."

"Gah!" I spin my my chair. It's him. "Don't do that," I feel my cheeks burn.

"What?" He got that same shit-eating grin plastered on his face, "The Prof said to stick this new name plate on your door."

"Oh! Okay."

I shouldn't but I feel like the kid caught filching from the cookie jar. Minimizing the computer screen to conceal Logan's profile, I motion him inside and relieve him of the package, "Lemme see."

"Let me," he offers noticing my useless struggle with endless tape wrapped around the thing.

Ok! Knock me over with a feather! Emerging from the knuckle between his left index and middle fingers is the tip of what looks like a very fine, sharp knife.

I can't stifle a gasp, "I read it your record but honest to god, I . . . I"

He retracts it and stares at me like I'm a complete idiot.

"Does that hurt?" It's probably a stupid question but I can't stop myself from asking.

"Nah," he returns the cleanly sliced carton. "This doesn't but poppin' all six full out's a bitch."

I'm doing a crappy job disguising my shock and from the look on his face I think he's enjoying it. To save my dignity I make a careful study of the sturdy brass nameplate etched with _**Doctor**_ _**Sue**_ in bold lettering and a smaller _, D.O._, underneath.

Displaying it, I decree, "This is pretty neat, don't you think?"

He looks bored out of his tree, "So, where ya want it?"

"The door, of course."

"Right but…placement. C'mon darlin', if I know women and I do….."

"Impress me."

Hee-hee! What a vexatious mug. "Oh all right. Since it's faded from the old sign nail it there." I add a solicitous, "Please," because he looks like he sucked a lemon.

"So, ya really do go by Doctor Sue," he asks over the buzz of his battery-op screw driver?

"Sure do."

"How come?"

"Less intimidating."

Chewing on his bottom lip, he makes eyes between me and the task, "Makes sense."

How he cops a simultaneous squint and one raised eyebrow is beyond me, but it's cute. Sexy, too.

Polishing the plaque with his shirtsleeve, he stands back admiring his handy work, "Howzzis?"

Leaning back in my chair, I affect meticulous scrutiny before declaring, "Perfection."

I think he gets that I'm teasing and returns, "Damn straight," with a superior expression.

In a mood to wrap up my day, I thank him and go back to reading. It takes too long before I realize he's still standing there.

Arms crossed, leaning against the door, his lips curved in a rakish smirk, I get the feeling he's undressing me in his mind again.

Blushing again, I'm relieved he's not positioned to read over my shoulder, "Is there something else?"

"Yeah. Are we on for Friday night?"

He's either a complete asshole or really doesn't get it. "Not if you're going to size me up like the main course!"

Two deep lines form a V across the bridge of his nose and the smirk falls from his lips. He starts to say something, stops abruptly then exhales. Mister hot-to-trot looks like somebody dumped a bucket of ice water down his britches. Staring at each other for a long, awkward moment, I witness him transform from a hawk to eating crow. I guess he must possess some level of empathy.

Turning away, he moves stiffly toward the door muttering, "Guess we ain't on for Friday."

My point seemingly taken, I toss him a bone, "I haven't had a chance to check my schedule."

Glancing over his shoulder, that mischievous grin's back on his face – a bit restrained this time. He turns, positions himself just inside the door and waits like an eager pup for a ball to be tossed his way.

If I say sit, will he? Oohh, naughty Sue! Be nice.

Situation as it is, I'm still of two minds about his invitation. I'd welcome the chance to beg a rain check. "Hmm, you're in luck…."

Bzzzt! My phone snatches my attention, "Sorry, gotta get this. My son…"

"Hey Matt! What's up?"

My blood pressure rises a notch hearing my ex-husbands elitist tone. He always does this; uses the boys' phone because he thinks I won't answer him right away. He's right. Most of the time he calls it's going to be something to muck up my schedule.

My date wanna-be doesn't make himself scarce but at least has the courtesy to turn away, making careful study of the walls.

"I see . . . I suppose . . ." I roll my eyes to the ceiling over Allen's latest life crisis. "Is it that the boys don't want to come along or is it Christine who doesn't want them along? . . . How can I say that? . . . Oh c'mon. This isn't the first time you've pulled a switcheroo on me. . . Fine! Whatever . . . Pick them up at five? . . . No . . . Yes, I said no. . . . Allen, just because you're changing the arrangement there's no reason Travis and Matt can bring their lil' selves just like any other weekend . . . Uh huh. . . yes. . . settled as far as I see it. . . Bye, Allen"

Logan chuckles as I click off the phone muttering, "Donkey brains!"

"Sounds like I really am outta luck for Friday," he says.

Well, got my rain check but it's not the one I expected, "I'm sorry. Another time, maybe?"

He looks frustrated and maybe puzzled. It's an expression I get a lot from potential dates when they realize my boys come first. Time to explain the facts of life and if he can handle it, great. If not, oh well, "I make it a rule not to mix my kids with my . . . um…dating life." Not that it's all that active lately but he doesn't need to know that.

I'm not sure but I think I detect a flicker of disappointment on his face before he shrugs, "Okay. See ya around, doc."

He's gone before I have a chance make a counter suggestion—not that I would. Oh well. Cross another one off the list.

xXx

I'm outta my friggin' mind. She's divorced; at least once maybe more for all I know. It sounds like her ex is a piece of work and to top it off, she's seriously wrapped up in those two kids. Then there's the mixed up signals she's throwing at me. One minute she's playing me – or thinks she is. The next minute she's running chicken. A piece of her tail is looking less and less worth the aggravation. Think I'll scram outta here for the night; chase me up some tail without all the baggage and strings attached.

An hour and a half later, I'm sucking down my second cold one, keeping half an eye on patron comings and goings and a hockey game on the TV mounted above a sticky, beat-up bar.

I catch a scent, familiar and safe, just ahead of a throaty purr, "Long time, no see." She wastes no time sliding an arm around my middle and slipping a manicured hand between my thighs.

"What's yer pleasure, darlin'?"

"Same as you but let's head for the booth," she tilts her head, "over there."

Karen's the whole package; independent, street smart and then some. It don't hurt she's one hot piece of ass with long, glossy black hair that sways with her hips. Her body's sleek and fit and the sweater and skirt, so short it could be a belt, showcases curves in all the right places. Long, tan legs beg a man to trail his fingers their length to see if her skin feels as silky as it looks. It does.

Seated opposite me, her index finger traces the rim of her beer bottle and her lips tilt up in a sly half smile, "It really has been a while. Where've you been lately?"

I shrug, "Here 'n there. No place special."

Her foot rubs against my shin, "No place special seems to do right by you."

I tip my beer in her direction, "Looking fine yerself."

There's a requisite amount of small talk that always goes with situations like this. It's a skill I haven't mastered. Fortunately, my other skills make up for it. "Still part owner of this joint?"

"Mm-mm. You're looking at the one and only owner."

Impressed, I grin and nod.

"You know Logan, last time we talked you were thinking about a new line of work. I could seriously use a guy like you tending bar."

I laugh, "Nah, never work. I don't do umbrella drinks."

She sighs, "Truer words were never spoken. Well, if you ever find yourself in need, the offer's there."

"How 'bout the other one?" She knows what I'm asking.

Under the table, she tangles her leg with mine, "Hang around 'til last call."

"I can do that."

She slides out of the booth. Leaning over she teases me with a demanding kiss and a nice view of the goods barely hidden beneath the V-neck of her sweater.

After countless beers, games of pool and darts, I'm finally following Karen up the narrow staircase leading to her apartment over the bar. Mesmerized by the swing of her perfect firm ass, I've got more than half a hard on recalling our last encounter.

I stand behind her as she opens the door, inhaling the soft sexy scent surrounding her. A spicy, vanilla-scented perfume mingled with the fresh smell of shampoo and underneath is the smell of bare smooth skin and the musk of a woman.

Barely inside, she launches herself at me, her hands unbuttoning my shirt. Her mouth, hot and slick pressing against each new patch of newly exposed flesh until she is sliding kisses along my waistband and nimbly unfastening my belt buckle.

"Ahhhhh!" It's sweet relief as she frees me from the confines of denim.

Her eyes are open, staring into mine as she kneels submissively. Smooth and warm, her fingers fondle and tease, stoking the fire in my belly. "You like?" she coo's.

My dick answers with a potent twitch.

She's so goddamn good. The pace, the touch; it's almost like masturbating. Except when it's just me I don't have the agonizingly erotic vision of myself squeezed between her delicate, practiced hands.

It gets better.

Her soft tongue steals out, lapping and tracing warm, liquid swirls setting sensitive nerves on fire. Our mingling scents, the sight of her lascivious ministrations, the sensation of her expert tongue play is sweet torture.

My hips rock with rising need. Blood pounds at my temples. Damn! I'm getting close. Struggling for control, I softly clasp her head in my hands, "Slow down."

My protests die as her soft, full lips close over me, sliding down almost to the base. Working it faster, harder, I can't stifle a moan and I can't stop from thrusting hard into her mouth.

Unfazed, she pushes me on, punishing me with her lips and hands. Flesh on flesh, she rouses savage heat trapping me in an expanding firestorm of raw animal lust. Desperate to reach that indefinable summit, I groan, "Finish it." She obeys, pressing her fingers on the spot guaranteed to do just that.

Inside, spasms, one more powerful than the next, surge forward burying me, drowning me in waves of overpowering ecstasy. Climaxing fast and hard, a guttural growl pours from my throat as I mindlessly buck like a rutting beast.

When my heart slows to mere double-time I look down at her. She wipes her lips with the back of her hand and there's no disguising the pleased expression on her face. With a sly grin, she straightens and sashays over to the couch peeling sweater and skirt as she goes. Primed and more than ready, she drapes her body over the cushions, splays her legs and declares, "Payback time."

High as a kite on her pheromones I hop across the floor like a spastic rabbit, shucking off my jeans and boots.

She relieves me of my shirt, drops her gaze and smiles wickedly, "Looking studly there, hon!"

I follow her gaze, notice my dick standing proud and below it my socks are also at full mast. Ah shit!

She cracks a giggle and I follow up with a raucous chuckle of my own.

xXx

About five a.m. I finally untangle my legs from hers. Karen's dead to the world asleep, no doubt worn out. Me? A triple play keeps the itch down to a manageable level. Ain't come a across a woman, Mutant or not, who can wear me out. She sighs as I brush a strand of hair off her forehead and tuck the covers around her shoulders. She's a good lady, a friend with benefits and like me, attachment shy.

Time to get back to campus and make like a respectable whatever it is I am. There's a heap of bullshit for ya.

The road back to Xavier's takes me through Salem Center with its quaint row of shops. A favorite, Havana Harry's Cigars, ain't open yet. Though it's illegal in the US, the proprietor keeps a special stash of Cubans for select customers. I scared the shit out of him the first time I set foot in the place. Though kept in a hidden basement humidor, I could still smell those fat beauties. When I pushed to buy a few, I think he thought I was a Fed 'r something. Took a while to build up trust but now I even make an occasional run to Cuba for him.

Another shop in particular, a pastry and coffee joint, almost always sidetracks me. Hungry from last night's activity and a mostly liquid supper, my stomach rumbles and my mouth waters just thinking about fresh from the ovens muffins chased with a triple shot espresso. Snapping the kickstand of my bike into place, I chuckle to myself. How different things are from a year ago when it was a treat sucking down a greasy, stale doughnut and coffee that'd rival battery acid. Yeah, civilisation's got its perks.

Well, lookee here! Forest green Volvo station wagon. Don't even have to get close enough to parse the scent to know whose car. Sure enough, I spot her through the plate glass window and don't she look nice in trim grey slacks, form fitting turtleneck and blazer. A red scarf draped around her shoulders adds a classy touch.

The place isn't busy yet so she's standing at the counter in a three way gab fest with the waitress and another babe I don't know. Sue and the other woman aren't paying attention but recognizing me, the waitress disengages from the conversation.

"Maple walnut's the special today," she tells me with a welcoming smile.

"Sounds good. Make it two, darlin'."

"Oh gosh!" Sue glances over her shoulder. "'Morning!" She turns to face me, fiddling with the shoulder strap of her purse. I get a whiff of nervous and surprise.

Weird! Why am I feeling the same? "'Mornin' yerself."

She beats me to it asking, "Come here often?"

"Couple times a week. You?" I know the answer cuz I ain't noticed her here before now.

"No, not really. I noticed it on my way to," as her voice drops her eyes roam the shop, "um. . .the school. Thought I'd try it out."

"Got time?" I motion to two cozy chairs by the window as the waitress sets out or order.

"A few minutes," she says glancing at her watch.

She reaches for her ticket but I get it first. She blushes, "You don't have to."

I reply, "You're welcome." It's hard not to laugh as her cheeks go from soft pink to bright red.

"On your way to work?" she asks settling into the faux velvet lounger.

Sipping my coffee, I do the same nodding yes to the question.

She makes peeling a muffin paper seem erotic.

"I dunno why but I thought you live at Xavier's."

"Charles assigns a room to me."

"Oh. So you have your own place?"

Hell no. That implies roots, permanence, responsibility. I shake my head and shove half a muffin in my mouth.

We munch in silence. Both of our eyes follow the comings and goings of customers.

Fidgeting, a soft aura of uncertainty swirls around her, "How did you end up coaching and so forth?"

"Good. . ." I swill a mouthful of coffee to wash down to big a bite, " . . .question."

And a loaded one too, from the hesitation in her phrasing. Bet money she almost said _a guy like you._ "Long story." And territory off limits.

Hell! Here I go with the paranoia. There's no condescension in her; just honest curiosity. When - if the time's ever right I'll give her the low down, "Had to do something in between. . . the uh . . . other stuff."

She sucks in a breath as if to speak. Catching herself, she beams a quizzical smirk and nods, "Do you like it?"

"What? Coaching?" Swirling the last dregs of my coffee with a wood stir, I consider my answer carefully, "For the most part, yeah. It's the kids, ya know. Watching them . . . when they seem to get it . . . feels kinda satisfying."

Her gentle smile vanishes at the buzzing sound coming from her jacket pocket. "Excuse me," is directed at me.

"This is Doctor Harris…..Repeat that, please." She's got a look of focused determination on her face. "Advise they go straight to the ER."

She clicks off the call and initiates something else on her phone, "Oh bugs! It's going to be one of those days." She answers my unspoken question with, "This ER thing is most likely going to be an admit and is going to screw up all my morning appointments."

"Can't ya change your schedule?"

"Some but it's still an inconvenient pain. Anyway," she gently squeezes my forearm, "thanks for the coffee. I've got to fly."

I watch her sprint out the door with the phone glued to her ear.

Damn! She's got baggage. She throws mixed signals. She's complicated. But just now; her face, her moves, the scent of adrenalin as she shifted into professional mode — she's fascinating.

XXX

**_A/N This is the last of the re-written chapters of the previously titled More Than Yesterday Less Than Tomorrow. I am s-l-o-w-l-y working on the rest. It's not as easy as one might think converting everything to first person point of view, turning boring exposition into action and dialog and correcting glaring characterisation mistakes. Please review either positively or not. All is appreciated. MLC _**


	4. Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

So here I am, working out in the weight room when it does me fuck all any good. Been keeping an eye down below. Waiting. For her.

Ain't she supposed to be here Monday, Wednesday and Friday? Calendar says Wednesday and she ain't showed yet. What the hell? I'm fast running outta time, due to teach a weapons training class in fifteen minutes.

Charles seems to think I'm his man for teaching the older kids the fine art of handling high caliber military weaponry. I thought he'd lost his marbles when he assigned the class to me but once into it, it's as if I'm born to it; or at least had training somewhere along the line. Beats the hell out of a lot of things I could've been stuck with to earn my pay around here.

"'Nuff o'this shit!" I grumble to no one. Exhaling through clenched teeth, I heave three hundred pounds back on its rack. Barely broke a sweat.

Cruising past the butlers' pantry that doubles as the staff coffee room, I spot her. Standing on tiptoes, she can't quite reach into the cabinet above her head. Standing silent, out of sight, I watch her stretch and quietly curse before she opens the lower cabinet to step on its lip. She _**is**_ a little thing! Five three or four max.

Sidling up behind her, my hands nearly circle her trim waist. Mmm-mmm! She smells sweet n' soft. Don't normally appreciate perfume on a woman but whatever she's wearing suits her. Gentle and low in her ear I say, "Here ya go," and lift her level with the shelf she needs.

She gasps and stiffens. Almost dropping the can, she turns about three shades of pink, "You scared the beans outta me."

"Sorry 'bout that."

Rigid posture and hand on her hip says she ain't buying my apology, "You could've just reached it for me."

Ain't stupid enough to say where's the fun in that, so I shrug.

"Next time, let a gal know you're there," she scolds. The half grin and twinkle in her bright blue eyes says I ain't totally in the doghouse.

Swear to god! A man could drown in those eyes.

Standing crossed arms, I watch her turn the job of opening a coffee can into high art.

"What's the preference around this place?" she asks while scooping coffee grounds into the basket.

"Huh?"

"Coffee strength?"

My mind ain't on coffee. "Uh . . . oh, right. Never strong enough for me."

"Mmmm." There's a mocking frown creasing her mouth. "Need that caffeine buzz, huh?"

"Caffeine don't do squat fer me?"

"Really?"

She's playing it cool but her scent tells me she's anything but so I back off; give her space. "My mutation, ya know."

"Oh! Right. Didn't think about it. Helpful, I suppose."

She spills water on the gray marble counter top and we grab for the same towel but I get there first. She shrinks back like I bit her or something and I'm sensing equal measures of anxiety and titillation.

Can't say I ain't tempted to grab that manicured hand and press a kiss into it — and then some, "Hey, no worries Doc. No repeats of the parking lot, okay?"

Aw, now! Go figure? She's red as cherry but I sense a wisp of disappointment!

Lush lips twitching, she smarts back, "Good plan."

Leaning against the counter, she's got her fingers locked together, alternating between clicking her thumbnails and circling her thumbs, "You haven't come by my office for your blood draw yet."

I shrug, "Been tied up and . . . by the time I remember you're already gone." It's half a lie. "How come you weren't at the pool this mornin'?"

"What's that got to do with anything?"

"Nuthin. Just noticed, that's all."

"Shall I print you out my weekly itinerary?"

"Whoa, darlin'. Don't go getting bent outta shape."

She snaps, "I'm not," and clams up.

Oo-wee. Yeah, she is. Maybe I oughtta quit while I'm behind.

"How 'bout now?" stops me from beating a quick exit.

"For what?"

"Draw your blood. It's going to take a couple minutes for the coffee to finish."

I detect a faint odor of contrition that I'm gonna play for all it's worth, "You do the draw?"

"If ya like. C'mon then."

xXx

Wonderful! My clinic's empty. And for heaven's sake, he's doing it again! Dark, mischievous eyes stripping me bare. Oohh, that arrogant creep! Two can play this game, right?

"Trust me, it's better than you imagine," I whisper and snap the rubber tourniquet tighter than it needs to be.

He grunts and answers, "Yer sure 'bout that?"

Oh! Arrogant _and_ rude! Of course I'm sure. I jab his vein hard as I dare.

"Ow!" He flinches, "Hey doc, is there a problem?"

Trying to seem casual, I change out the vial and bite my tongue formulating a reply, "Has anyone ever told you that you have an attitude bigger than Alaska and Texas combined?"

His laugh is rich and honest, "A time 'r two."

I'm communicating with a brick wall. "Do you look at every woman like that?"

Looking me square in the eyes, his expression cocksure, "Only beautiful women."

From the heat I feel, my face must be as red as the blood I'm drawing. What do I say to that? Not a darn thing, if I've got any brains. I withdrawal the needle as gently as I would for a newborn.

Fishing for a band-aid, I tease, "What'll it be tough guy? Garfield? Winnie the Pooh? I'm partial to Eeyore."

"Okay, then. Plain," I recant responding to his sour grimace.

Hmm. This is interesting. Aside from a tiny drop of blood on the cotton swab, there isn't the slightest trace of a needle mark.

"Logan, if you have a deep laceration does it heal just as quickly?"

"Depends. Worse it is, longer it takes."

"Really? How much longer?"

"Never timed it. Been messed up a few times and it takes me a couple days to get back to normal."

"Messed up? Like how?"

He shrugs and glances away, a clear signal the conversation's closing.

"I sorta owe you an apology," is my feeble attempt to keep him talking.

He quirks an eyebrow.

"I haven't done a blood draw in ages."

Oozing sarcasm, he answers, "Really?" Then, lets me off the hook, "No worries, doc. I, uh, deserved it."

Flushed with guilt from treating him roughly, I hide behind the screen of my e-notebook and fill out the lab requisition, "Silly question but is Logan your first or last name?"

"Yeah."

"I'm serious."

"So'm I."

"Well, the computer won't let me complete the form without first and last name. Whadaya want me to put down?"

He shrugs, "Dunno. Think I look like a Tom 'r a Joe?"

Framing him up between skyward index fingers, "Herbert," I tease, "Herbert Milquetoast. The look on his face is priceless. "No, no! I'm sorry. Hmm. Need something rugged, manly. Steve? Jake?"

He waves me off, "Surprise me."

"Let's see, Logan's of Celtic origin, I think."

"Gaelic," he corrects.

There's a difference? Curious, I Google names and discover he's right. It's a silly effort but scrolling the list, I search for something that suits him. Who knows, I might need it again.

"How about Kelley? It means warrior. Logan Kelley? Kelley Logan?"

He shakes his head muttering, "Whatever."

"Uh, while we're inventing a patient, I need a date of birth."

Dipping his head sideways, he looks peeved, "Aw fer chrissake!"

"Make up something?" I ask timidly.

He nods then points to the vials, "What're ya gonna do with 'em?"

"I'm going to send them off to a private lab I use from time to time. It takes a few weeks to process and map the genetic sequences."

"Private lab?" His face is a mask of suspicion.

"Worthington Labs. They specialize in human mutagenics."

"Yeah, yeah, I figured. How do I know they ain't gonna do some funny stuff with my blood?"

"What are you talking about?"

"Healing factor."

It takes me a minute, "Ohhh. Worthington's reputation is impeccable . . ."

He cuts me off, "So was Hindenburg's."

Good grief, how paranoid can a guy be? I shrug and offer, "Your other option is to go with a buccal swab."

"What's that?"

"I use a cotton swab to collect a sample of cells from the inside surface of your cheek."

"Right," he stretches the word, obviously pretty ticked off. "And I'm a fuckin' pin cushion because?"

Okay, enough of his boorish second-guessing. "Because, in my opinion, it's allows for greater range of testing with less chance of error."

As he rubs the back of his neck there seems to be a battle raging behind his dark eyes, "All this is gonna tell me what?"

The guy needs a bonk upside his head. We've been through this. "Simply put, it'll match you with blood relatives. That is of course, if those relatives are listed in the world-wide DNA database but since it goes back about fifty years there's a reasonable chance of a match."

Jaw clenched and eyes narrowed, he mutters, "Shit!" Striding briskly across the waiting area, he yanks open the door, "All right. Do it."

I know it's coming but I still jump as the door slams behind him. Certain he's out of sight, I stick out my tongue.

Poop-head!

xXx

"Whoa! Ty . . . don't . . ."

Too late. The kid takes another step backwards and even if I had wings, I can't get there fast enough. Neither can his classmates, three younger kids, who've been laboring all afternoon building a tree house.

I'm just here for a smoke break. Why's the shit always hit the fan when I'm around?

He hits the ground with a thud and a crack. The skewed angle of his right arm is a strong clue where the crack came from. Just as I beat tracks to his side, he recovers his breath and howls like a banshee.

Kneeling, I gently restrain his movements, "Easy kid."

Stunned silent, the other kids gather 'round. Warning them to, "Back off," I don't need the scent of their empathic fear smothering any clue's Ty's giving off.

"We just wanna help," the kid with the blue tail, FW's his name, offers.

"Fair enough. You guys get Doctor Sue." They're gone quick as I can blink; the words yes sir trailing in their wake.

Attention on Ty, I don't wanna scare him but I do wanna try making sure nothing else is broke; like his neck. Taking care not to move him, I cradle his head between my hands, "'Zis hurt?"

Fear as strong as the pain, he's blubbering his eyes out and can't answer.

This is one o'those times when a transferable healing factor'd be nice. Lowering my voice, I demand, "Ty, look at me. Take a deep breath."

Eye contact he does but the deep breath comes out in an eruption of hiccups.

I keep soothing, "Easy . . . easy does it." Takes a minute or two but he calms down and I ask again, "Does your head or neck hurt?"

He snorts back a nose full o'snot, "N - no."

I reward him with a reassuring grin then take his left hand in mine, "Feel this?"

He nods and squeezes hand on my cue.

"Okay. Now, here's what you're gonna do. With your good arm, I want ya to hold onto your busted one." Demonstrating, I wrap one of my arms around my middle both supporting and locking my other arm against by body, "Like this. Okay?"

"Trust me," I say as his fear spikes up a notch. He whimpers but complies.

"Good job."

Sizing up the situation and the kid's condition doesn't make me feel too good about options. "What's next might hurt a little. I'm gonna lift ya up and carry ya to Doctor Sue's office."

No surprise, his fear threatens to go through the stratosphere and the blubbering starts over fresh.

"Count with me, on three," I suggest, hoping that engaging him will be a distraction.

Just starting to count, I spot Doc Sue tearing across the lawn. Ty's pals bring up the rear guard.

I haven't been so pleased to see a doctor in . . . well, not in recent memory.

Squatting next to him, she gets the kid calm and telling his story in no time. Filling her in that I don't think the kids neck is broke, I try fading into the background.

"Okay Mister Ty, Coach Logan has the right idea about carrying you back to the clinic."

The kid starts up again with the whining.

"Hey now. None of that," Sue shuts down his cryin'. "I'm going to give you something to take the pain away." Reaching into her bag, she pulls scissors, "Sorry but I'm going to have to cut your jacket and shirt."

The scissors give her a rough time cutting through the thickly padded jacket. I say, "Lemme," and pop a single claw.

She swallows a startled gasp. Ty responds with, "Cool!" and the first grin I've seen from him since he fell outta the tree.

Syringe readied, she says, "Tyler, look over there," and points toward a pair of squirrels scampering over trees branches. Gently pinching is arm, she injects a sedative.

He quits mid-whimper, "Hey, that didn't really hurt!"

"Told ya, dude. Let's give it a few minutes and we'll fix up that arm, ok."

In less than five minutes, the kid's loopy and I carry him, giggling and chattering a streak, to Sue's clinic.

Motioning toward an exam room, she says, "Electra's gone for the day so do you mind sticking around and helping if I need it?"

She's outta her friggin' mind! When it comes to all things medical, bash 'n dash is my definition of helping. Nodding, I mumble, "Guess so."

Everything's hunky-dory, that is I'm chillin' on a couch in the waiting area reading a magazine, when she sticks her head out of the X ray room, "I need your help reducing the fracture."

I don't like the sound of this but I get off the couch, stretch and pop my joints, "Got a plain English translation for that, darlin'?"

"Sure do." She points to a hard plastic and metal chair, "Get comfy."

"Check this out," she's talking to both of us while she shows Ty's X-ray on a computer screen. "Ty, see how your bones don't line up?"

"Wow. Sick."

Her soft laugh over adolescent slang is genuine, "What I have to do is get them to line up."

"How?"

I'm thinking, trust me kid, ya don't wanna know but Sue tells him straight up.

I respect that kind o'dealing.

Still doped, the kid starts freaking out, "Is it gonna hurt?"

"It might which is why I'm going to give you another shot."

Arm around Ty so he doesn't fall off the table, she says, "This is going to sound weird and I promise none of your buds will ever find out, but I need you to sit on Coach's lap."

Good drugs. Gotta love 'em. The kid giggles and with Sue's help slides off the table.

I get what she's trying to do for the kid's ego but I still feel like one awkward sonuvabitch with a spaced out kid in my lap.

"Logan, please wrap your arms around Ty."

Obviously, my uneasiness shows and I don't get it right.

"No. Like this," she places one of my arms around his middle and the other bracing his good shoulder and upper chest.

Weird factor aside, this ain't most comfortable position for either of us. Scares me a little, too. Too much pressure on his chest 'r shoulder and I could hurt the kid.

She ain't suckin' up when she tell me, "Perfect."

Sedative hits the kid full on and I feel him turn to spaghetti in my arms.

She squats eye level to the kid, "Ty, I need you to hold very still."

"Logan?" She measures me with a cool appraising look but I smell uncertainty. She second-guessing me?

Certain of my duty, I nod. "Ready."

Ty drools and mumbles. Christ! I hope he don't puke.

The kid's mostly oblivious but Sue keeps talking, explaining what she's doing, what he might feel and hear. She doin' that for my benefit?

Her pretty face takes on a serious, pained look warning, "Here we go."

Pop! It sounds agonizing and if it's anything like a dislocated joint, I know it is. Even sedated, the kid howls.

Whoa! I feel the blood drain to my feet and my stomach twist. Swallowing hard, I hope I don't look as puny as I suddenly feel.

It's weird. I got few reservations dishing out the worst possible pain to scum like Magneto or Sabertooth but a kid . . . nah ah.

Get a grip, bub. Ya know she's doing right by the kid.

xXx

Ty's off in la-la land, safe in a bed 'til the sedative wears off. Sue and I are sipping mugs of coffee 'til that happens.

It must've showed, my wussing out, when she fixed the kid 'cuz she's real attentive towards me. This ain't the way I planned to get her interest.

"You were wonderful," I smell more gratitude than gush from her. "I feel like I need to repay you, somehow."

I can think of a couple ways, darlin'. "Anybody'd have done it."

"Maybe but I'm grateful for your help. How about dinner at One Twenty One? It's casual and the food's to die for. On me."

Wait a minute! Did she just turn the tables? Good on ya, darlin'. "Sounds like a plan but...," I glance at my wristwatch.

Dammit. "No can do. I take over watch in about fifteen minutes."

"Well, that's inconvenient." She sighs and I can almost see the cogs spinning inside her mind, "Then a rain-check it'll have to be. How about . . . ," she whips out her cell phone and pushes a few buttons. Frowning, her voice drops off, "...tomorrow. Scratch that. I'm booked up."

Fiddling with her phone, I catch a whiff of frustration. Muttering to herself she says, "Would you be insulted if I have to put you off 'til next Friday?"

A lot can happen in a week but what the hell. "I'm there."

xXx

Fuckin' Sunday drivers! Hitting the throttle, I whip around the bulky sedan, its occupants a dodgy pair of Q-tips.

Q-tips! Makes me laugh every time. It's a phrase I first heard from Marie and damn if she's not smack on the mark with it; two snow white haired grandma's cruising down the street and don't ya know they couldn't do one freakin' mile over twenty five.

It's an unusually warm day for February and I'm feeling neighborly so I don't flip 'em the bird burning asphalt as I roar past. Slowing for a traffic light, it's decision time. For a change, I got no plan and hours to waste. A right turn takes me away from civilization. Left; Salem Center. The empty rumbling in my stomach suggests I might first wanna fuel up. The needle on my gas tank suggests a different sort of fuel up. Left turn it is.

Just two blocks from town, I spot the local Johnny Justice in his usual hidey-hole. And just like most times, it's only a couple seconds before he's riding my six, lights flashing.

I debate gunning it but since Charles makes the fines disappear, evasion is liable to tick him off a whole bunch more 'n me operating a bike without a helmet. License too, but who's keeping count?

I drop my kickstand as he emerges from his squad car, "Nice day, eh Pete." I'm in luck this time. His kid goes to Xavier's.

Confident I ain't likely to assault him, his bearing is easy going, "Gosh darn it, Logan. I can't keep writing you warnings. New York State requires helmets. 'Least you could do is carry one."

Trying to finesse the situation, I keep mum over my driving offenses, "Hey, you're gonna be real pleased with Kimmie's grades."

"Now coach, you wouldn't be trying to get one over on me, would you?" He's chuckling but his scent tells me he's not sure whether I'm serious or not.

What, do I look like a con man? "Hell no!" Hastily, I add, "Sir."

Officer Pete shakes his head and hands over a small electronic gizmo, "You know where to sign."

I do and when I return the thing and he prints it out I am not a happy man. "Hey, thought ya said a warning?"

"I said I can't keep giving you warnings. Brass checks my records, you know."

Looking it over, I realize I'm at least five hundred bucks in the hole plus I'm gonna hafta appear in court. Fuck this!

Pissed, I stuff it in my saddlebag with the other warnings and mount up on my bike.

"Have a nice day, Logan."

Since his kid's a student, I make nice waiting 'til he's out of sight before I flip him off.

A few minutes later, pulling into a parking spot in front of the local coffee shop, I'm cussing and kicking myself enough that I almost don't notice a certain white Jaguar. But, through the window I see her sipping cappuccino among a crowd of your typical well-to-do suburbanites.

I hate crowds. I ain't got money and I hail from nowhere special. Eh, spit in your eye.

Opening the café door trips a bell. Customers look my direction but my fuck off and die frown discourages friendly contact.

Except for her. She breaks into an open, friendly smile and I find it impossible not grin back.

"Join us," she says and scoots over a space.

I shake my head and queue up to order.

Overhearing polite inquiries about her connection to me, I'm relieved an impressed how she handles it. Xavier's School and anybody associated with it provoke a mixed bag of reactions. Sue's a smart cookie and her answer, 'someone I work with', does the trick.

Coffee, fried egg and scrapple sandwich in hand, I scrounge the same overstuffed seats we shared last week. She's watching and excuses herself from the crowd when I motion her to sit with me.

"Fancy meeting you here," she says making herself comfortable.

"Yeah. Kinda like a habit 'r something."

"Kind of."

We sit quiet while I stuff my face and then trip on each other asking a version of what we're doing on this fine day.

I say, "You first," because that's the best I can manage with a mouthful of sandwich.

"On my way over to check on Ty."

And? She don't elaborate. "Right. Last I saw he was bugging ever'body to sign his cast."

"Typical," she laughs. "Hate to tell him, though, I might have to change it out."

"Whyzzat?"

"When I set his arm there was significant swelling. Once that abates he'll have too much mobility."

Makes sense. I nod. "Ya look nice."

"Thank you."

And she does, all dolled up in a form fitting dress that matches her eyes. The material, some kind of wool, looks touchable soft. So does she.

I clear my throat, "Where ya comin' from?"

"Church."

I take a slug of coffee to conceal my surprise. Sheesh! Hope she ain't one o'those bible-thumping, my shit's better 'n yours types. Nah, I'd have figured that out already. Besides, gold crucifix necklace usually means Catholic. They generally ain't the in your face sort.

"Ya do that every Sunday?"

"I try."

This topic's going nowhere. Trouble is, I ain't good at small talk.

She breaks the silence, "So the Professor let you out to play this afternoon?"

"Nobody_** lets**_ me do anything," jumps outta my big mouth edged with needless hostility and she reacts like I smacked her.

Rightly pissed, she hits back in a sotto voce, "Excuse the hell out of me," and makes to rejoin her friends.

Aw shit! I reach and snag her sleeve, "I . . . I'm sorry. Sit down. Please."

She hesitates for a minute, studying me and I'm worried she might dump her coffee on my head, "Apology accepted but I really have to go."

Damn. I've blown it. Heard the words but ignored the chemical signals and snapped at her like a caged pit bull. "Ya sure?"

She smiles but it don't show in her eyes, "I'm running behind already. See you, Logan."

With that, she bids goodbye to her friends and is out the door without a backward glance. I practically choke on the cloud of indignation in her wake.

Want_ the_ definition for stupid, insensitive jerk? I'm it.

Groaning out loud, I haul my ass out of the chair. Slamming the door behind me, the bells crash to the floor.

"Forget it. Just fuckin' forget it."

Cigar clamped between my teeth, I mount, gun my bike and squeal tires down the street aiming to do just that.

XXX

A/N The way it's going, you'd think they might never get together. That vital plot point was glaringly missing in the original. I've got more relationship tangles planned in the next couple chapters. No clue how long it'll take to get it posted. I appreciate your patience. Reviews/comments always appreciated. MLC


	5. Chapter 5

CHAPTER FIVE

I smell it and my stomach rumbles approval as I roll my bike between the Marquez' truck and SUV; the spicy, rich aromas of home cooking. Ain't been that long since I ate but an afternoon communing with the great outdoors sorta works up an appetite. Supper at Casa Marquez is a primo cure.

Electra's had open invite to faculty and staff Sunday nights since they joined the Team. Sometimes it's just me. More times, it's 'Ro and Kurt or Scott. Rarely, it's the Professor and his lady friend. Initially, I didn't want anything to do with it. Put in my hours and I'm gone; do my own thing. But, both of 'em kept at me and I'm glad they did.

Electra and Vic occupy what was once the grounds keeper's cottage when Xavier's estate was a posh enclave for a mega-rich dynasty instead of its current incarnation, a sanctuary and school for Mutants. She keeps a clean but cluttered house bursting at the seams with her hobbies. The woman paints, potters, gardens and who knows what else.

Vic's extra-curricular's are more in line with mine, restoring classic motorcycles. His collection, including a 'forty-seven, twelve hundred cc, twin engine Indian Chief, gives me a hard on.

He's also a musician, pro once. Percussionist for some big name Latino band I can't remember. He's even got a gold record hung on the wall in his study! And he's a friggin' X-Man?

Electra scolds, "You're almost late," as I shuck my jacket into a heap in her mudroom.

It's my usual habit to cut it close for Sunday supper at the Marquez'. No disrespect intended, I just seem to get hung up with something 'r another. Half the time it's Vic 'n me doing dishwashing penance for being late.

"Hey, I'm late 'r I ain't. What's cookin'?"

She laughs and directs me upstairs, "Chilies Rellenos and Vic could use your help setting up the new waterbed."

My complaint, "Makin' me work for my meal, eh darlin'?" is in jest as I take the stairs two at a time.

"You betcha," she yells from her kitchen.

The new waterbed she's talking about is actually a tank; a man-sized, filtered, and temperature controlled aquarium. Vic's mutation makes it so he's got to spend a certain amount of time submerged in water. Sorta have to wonder how the two of 'em manage? Opposites attract and all that bunk but electricity and water!

Vic stands at the foot of thing; I think it's the foot; arms crossed his face set in a sour grimace.

"Problem?"

He delivers the explanation in ripe, rapid fire Spanish.

Hoo-kay! Seems the wife doesn't like the location of said waterbed.

"I told her to be sure where she wanted it. I told her it's frickin' heavy; even empty," he rambles. "I told her once I got it set up it wasn't moving."

"So what's the issue?" I'm playing dumb and we both know it.

"Just shut up and gimme a hand."

If I applause, think he'll rescind the dinner invite? And prob'ly and kick my ass. "Where to?"

"Would you believe," he points left, "three feet this way?"

I shrug, not having a clue what difference three feet makes but I'm sure Electra has her reasons. Not that they'd make any sense to me.

It takes us a solid ten minutes, taking great care not to screw up the tile flooring, inching the bugger into place. Mid-point, Electra shows up to supervise and goad us with a chilled pair of Negra Modelos.

"Awesome," she cheers. "Now see, mi marido, it's perfectly spaced between the tile and carpet." Setting the beers on a dresser top, she beats a fast retreat.

Vic's eyes roll, "Si, si. Centered so it's pretty and I have to be careful getting out every morning." He takes a chug of beer and shouts, "Woman, I don't want to hear one word when your carpet gets dripped on."

"What did you say, mi amor?"

I gotta laugh. Mostly in good fun, they bicker like this all the time.

A most excellent supper consumed, dishes done and Vic and I are back to the waterbed assembly; your basic fill 'er up while we fill up on more beer, making sure it doesn't overflow. 'Bout as interesting as watching paint dry. The TV on in the corner provides a moderately entertaining basketball game. No idea where Electra's gone off too.

I can't easily get trashed on beer but five or six in a row'll loosen me up some. It's what I need to ask advice of just about anybody; my best pal included. Setting beer number whatever down, rubbing the back of my neck and letting go with a juicy belch, I'm working up to askin'.

"What's a good way to, um, say you're sorry when ya've fucked up?"

His eyes stay glued to the game on the tube asking, "Depends. Who?"

"Female. Said something I shouldn't 've."

"Serious female?"

I snort, "Not if I don't fix it."

"Anybody I know?"

My insides 'r squirming. "Let's keep it anonymous for now."

"Can't give advice if I don't know all the facts."

"Fine. Keep it to generalities, okay?"

"Okay, okay. Don't go all lobo on me."

"Aw fer chrissake. Never mind." Agitated, I itch my crotch and fart.

Copping a disgusted sneer, Vic gripes, "Gringo can't handle Mexican cooking."

"Jealous?"

He laughs and after a fair attempt besting me, says, "Flowers works pretty good."

"Jesus Christ!" I fan the air. "Kinda ordinary, ain't it? The flowers."

"Gotta be nice flowers. Not just any bunch ya get from the grocery store."

Ya can get flowers from a grocery store? "Well yeah, nice flowers. Prob'ly costs a bundle, eh?"

"Cost is in dee-rect proportion to your sin."

I stare at him like he's talking in tongues.

"Seriously, amigo. Poco fuck up, Poco wallet ouch. Grande fuck up…"

"Yeah, I get it."

"If you really want to score brownie points, you need to add a . . . um . . . personal touch."

"Aw c'mon."

Shutting off the water and going for more beer, he leaves to me ruminate.

"Like what?" I ask when he hands me another cold one.

"Like what what?"

"Personal touch."

"How should I know? It's your lady friend."

xXx

Okay, the flowers are a no-brainer. I guess my sin equals about a dozen roses. It's the personal touch part that has me racking my brain as I mess around with Charles' piano.

Box of chocolates?

Lame. 'Sides, dunno if she likes 'em.

What woman don't? Still lame.

Bottle of wine? Hmm . . . maybe.

Think, ya dumb Canuck. What the heck does she really like?

Teasing out a soft tune, I'm replaying our encounters in search of a clue.

Duh! We both like the some of the same kind of music.

Concert tickets? Uh huh. That could work.

Yeah, yeah. That really could work. Inspired, I cut out for my room and my seldom-used PC.

Whoa! Hold on. I check my watch. If I'm gonna get flowers in time, I better go. Right now.

I'm in luck, managing to score a dozen white roses from Whole Foods just before it closes. Grocery store 'r not, they look pretty good to me and they definitely cost a bundle. Even better, the chick at the counter must've been psychic guessing my plight and suggesting – sheesh - this is kinda dumb — no, it's really dumb.

I remember Sue saying how she's partial to Eeyore. Finally know what an Eeyore is. So, risking it all, including my bad-ass reputation, I buy it; a stuffed, depressed looking donkey.

Unfortunately, my luck doesn't hold getting the things back in one piece. Should've known a bouquet of flowers and a motorcycle ain't a good combination. Victims of wind, only half survive the trip.

Damn.

Concert tickets work out better. Much better. No clue who the dude is but performing Schubert, Beethoven and Janacek oughtta get me off the shit list with one Doctor Susan Harris.

Okay, now to get this stuff into her office unnoticed. Waiting an hour past lights-out, ease down the back stairs to the kitchen, out the back door, across the terrace that her office just happens to overlook and I'm there. Simple.

Tip of a claw jimmies the locked glass doors. In charge of security around here, once inside the door, I disengaged the alarm with the master code.

I feel a familiar, subtle buzz in the back of my consciousness. Charles is making his usual Cerebro-juiced mind sweep looking to bust errant hormonal kids and whatever. Sometimes, he and I engage in a game of mental hide and seek. I know how to block him but if I'm in a mood I can't resist giving the guy a brain dump of deep, dark feral sensory overload.

_Good evening._

Good bye, I return.

_May I inquire….._

No . . . Well, just call it an after-hours repair job.

The buzz in my head grows stronger as the nosy bastard ups the psi power. Piss off Chuck.

The buzz quits. Smart move cuz I was about to blast him with a migraine's worth of mental garbage.

Ah shit. What am I gonna put these roses in? Logan, ol'man, this just ain't yer thing. Hang on. There's a coffee mug on her desk. Cold dregs down the scrub sink drain and I got m'self an okay vase. I chuck the flowers in and it promptly falls over, dumping the water across the counter top.

Nice! Good thing it wasn't her desk.

A claw tip shortens the stems and it's all good.

I set it smack center of her desk. Nah-ah. Too damn obvious, especially if she ain't the first one in. Tucked beside her computer screen'll do. Almost forgetting, I stick the stuffed donkey beside it then have serious second thoughts.

Not about the flowers or the concert tickets; it's the stupid stuffed toy. I don't remember ever working this hard to get a woman to bed. But, here I am acting like some teenage, love-sick dope.

Shit! Better make up my mind fast. My senses tell me Kurt's close by, making night rounds.

Ah, what the hell! It looks kinda like I feel sometimes.

Quickly resetting the alarm, I lurk in a dark corner of Sue's office 'til Elf, none the wiser, goes past. Stealth no longer required, I exit through the door leading to the main hall – after parsing for scents. Old habits never quit.

xXx

Electra greets, "Buenos dias," her voice coming from exam room two.

"It is," I concur, happy for another sunny day. Now, if it would only warm up – just a little. I've lived in New York for twenty plus years and by February I'm still sick to death of the winters. "Guess we better not get used to it," I counsel my assistant.

"¿Por qué?"

"Punxsutawney Phil saw his shadow."

Laughing, she pokes her head from the room, "Yeah, but Bee Cave Bob says spring's right around the corner."

"Who's Bee Cave Bob?"

"Texas' answer to the groundhog, an armadillo."

My turn to giggle, "You're kidding?"

She raised her hand, "Scouts honor."

"That's too much," I laugh even more. "What's the schedule . . . Oh what's this?" My coffee mug sprouted a rose bush over the weekend.

"Cute," I mutter. There's a six-inch tall stuffed Eeyore standing on an envelope.

Finished re-stocking the exam room, Electra inspects my discovery. "I saw the roses when I came in but I didn't notice that." Her eyes twinkle with mischief, "Ooh! Secret admirer? Open it."

I do and two slips of heavy paper plop on my desk. "Hmm." I keep my tone neutral though I appreciate the value of two tickets for first rate seats at Carnegie Hall. If I have a secret admirer, which apparently I do, he . . . he? Of course he. He certainly isn't cheap.

Electra grills, "Who's it from?"

"I don't know." But I think I can guess.

"No note?" Electra seems disappointed.

"Nope." And I think I'm not going to voice any speculation 'til I can confirm privately.

She sighs but I can almost see the wheels turning inside her head. Getting down to business, she says, "We've got a full day of well-checks."

"Right."

"I thought we'd get the quints done first."

"Yeah, I've heard they're quite a circus. Smart choice."

"Sweethearts, when they want to be." Veering off topic, she inserts, "I haven't noticed anybody being particularly attentive to you."

I shrug. _Some_body has been but not when anyone might notice.

"Oh, and I've got a mandatory danger room session at ten-thirty."

"Fun. Right in the middle of the morning? Who scheduled that?"

"Probably Scott, but don't worry. I scheduled a break for you between then and noon."

"Terrific. By the way, just what do you do in the Danger Room?"

"In this case, work my butt off fighting holographic bad guys. But it can be programmed for all kinds of cool stuff. Want a fantastic run on the beach and don't have a beach handy? It can do that." She mimes the moves, "Dance a tango with your own specially programmed, ahem, partner."

"I'm not going to ask."

"Why don't you observe my session?"

"Well, since you scheduled me such a convenient break, I think I will."

"There's really only two possibilities," she ponders.

"Possibilities? What?"

"Your secret admirer. There are only two," she draws quotation marks in the air, "single guys on campus; Scott and Logan."

I roll my eyes, "Good grief."

She glances at the gifts, "That is definitely not Logan's style."

Beaming a secretive smile, I shrug. She obviously didn't notice the word _Sorry_ scrawled on the inside of the envelope flap. At least I think that's what it said; the penmanship was pretty bad. Further debate must go on hold when the Stepford Cuckoo's show up for their check-ups. Can't wait to find out how their nickname came about.

xXx

The Danger Room observation booth is impressive as is Scott Summers' detailed explanation of its workings. Ultra modern as a descriptive doesn't do justice to twin consoles with touch pad this and that's and 3-D screens. You name the cutting-edge technology and this place has it.

But, oh my god, I'm captivated watching a ferocious display of male prowess. Agile and lightning fast, Logan seems intensely focused and totally in his natural element. He's, he's just... wow!

And such a body! I don't know where to look first. He's wearing nothing except low slung jeans that hug perfectly tapered hips and define a deliciously sculptured backside, the kind good for pinching or a playful swat. Any woman would happily die cuddled into thick, downy looking hair swathing his powerful chest and six-pack abs. It's not hard to tell, even with his shirt on but hot-damn; the man is ripped – in capital letters.

My distraction must show. Feeling an elbow bump my arm, I blush as Electra flicks a wink and conspiratorial smile. Thank my lucky stars I'm standing behind Scott.

Oh, Susan Aileen Harris, get a grip. Hot bod and possible very sweet apology or not, doesn't make up for those warning bells in your head – that you keep ignoring.

You couldn't fill a thimble with what I know about hand-to-hand combat, mixed martial arts or whatever it is Logan is doing. But, holding my breath, I watch him falter from a savage kick to his groin.

It's obvious he's in significant pain but the look on his face is unadulterated homicidal rage. Roaring, he pivots clear of his holographic opponent and spins, delivering a series of brutal, rapid-fire gut punches. Ultimately felled by a lethal throat punch, Logan's opponent staggers, collapses and pixelates into nothing.

Breathing hard, he glowers up at the control pod and hollers, "Shit. Izzat all ya got?"

"Yeah," says Scott, who's monitoring the session. "Time's up."

"Screw that, Scooter. Gimme five at level six."

Electra pushes a button and scolds, "Miho, don't be a hog. I need my time in or my boss isn't going to be very happy."

"C'mon down, darlin'. We'll combine sessions."

Electra laughs, telling him to take a hike in Spanish just as the room reverts from a holographic war zone to its natural state; a metallic tiled, inverted half-dome. Now, it's easy to see the projection devices that create any scene the mind can imagine.

Looking none too pleased, Logan disappears through a pair of automatic doors. A second later, doors swish open here in the control room. Carrying himself with compelling self-confidence, he strides from the elevator toweling the sweat from his dark, unruly hair.

Complaining, "Scott, the program's too damn predictable 'n slow," Logan drops into a chair. "Ladies," he acknowledges touching his head in a mock salute.

"You're full of it, Logan. Explain how you get nailed in the balls every time."

Never have I heard such a sound come from a human being. Logan releases a bass rumble. On his feet and in Scott's face, he challenges, "Cuz some dick-cheese gets his jollies programming it in there. Who d'ya think it might be, eh bub?"

Good grief. I witnessed these two together exactly two different times and each time has been a pissing contest. Note to self; ask Electra what their issues are?

Scott doesn't back down, "You gotta problem with the programming then get your ass down here and help sometime."

"Ya got it, bub. How 'bout t'night?"

Scott stands and makes for the exit, "Tonight. Eleven….uh eleven-thirty." He doesn't cloak annoyance or dubiousness from his expression or voice. "Now, I'm out of here. Gotta geometry class to teach."

Twisting his head to the side, Logan cracks his neck and exhales. Positioned in front of the console, he seems back in control, "What's your pleasure, darlin'?" He's talking to Electra.

"Scenario four, half speed to start, por favor."

He cuts her a disparaging frown but she bops him on the back of his head, "Someone, who shall remain nameless, didn't leave me enough time to warm up."

Guilt flashes across his face, "Just tell me who, 'Lectra and I'll take care of 'em."

She winks, "I'll count on that, miho."

Electra exits and he doesn't speak, no it's more than that. He ignores me going about initializing the training simulation as she makes her way below. I'm not surprised.

Eyes glued to the Danger Room and Electra's progress he finally asks, "Whatcha doin' down here?"

"Electra suggested I might enjoy the show."

His grunt sounds indifferent but watching his profile, I catch a brief grin.

I'm curious but I'm hesitant to start a conversation. If I have any sense at all, I shouldn't say one word about the little gift. I should go back to my office and forget all about this guy.

"How often do y'all work out like this?" So much for should and shouldn't.

"S'posed to every day. Don't always happen that way."

"Hmmm. Why?"

He shrugs.

Awkward silence hangs between us making me certain who my gift-bearer is. If I'm wrong, though, the last thing I want is gossip run amok. "Can she hear us?"

He points to a switch on the console, "Only if I activate two-way."

It's clear two-way is off. Perfect. "The items on my desk . . . they're from you?"

Without a beat he answers, "Yep."

"It's very sweet but why?" Like I don't know but let's see where this goes.

"I, uh, came down a little hard yesterday and um, I just wanna say sorry."

"You did and I accepted your apology."

"Yeah, well . . ." He makes direct eye contact for the first time today, "Sometimes I come off like a first rate jack-ass and I just figured . . . well . . . dunno what . . . but . . ."

He recoils ever so slightly as I put my finger on his lips, "Apology accepted, the roses are lovely and I'm looking forward to the show." And I'm not bitch enough to keep you hopping on coals over a detailed explanation of your callous remark at the cafe.

The look on his face is a mix of relief and wonder as I press a kiss on his forehead and vamoose for my office. I'll probably spend the remainder of the day kicking myself for keeping whatever this is going. Too attractive for his own good and a man on the make, I don't get it. Why me? And why am I powerless to resist?

XXX


	6. Chapter 6

CHAPTER SIX

"Screw it," I chuck the brush into the sink. Despite a trim this afternoon, my hair defies all attempts taming two obnoxious tufts on either side of my head. Hair goop? Never.

Tonight is the night. I'm stoked, even a little nervous. When's the last time I took a nice lady out to a decent place?

She's still playing hard to get. Her latest trick is meeting me at the concert instead of me picking her up. Thought she was worried I'd come for her on my Harley but it didn't matter that I told her I'm borrowing one of Charles' cars. While not an outright lie, she pawned me off saying she couldn't be sure of her clinic schedule and didn't want me having to wait around. Pissed me off a little because I don't go for games like that. Don't care how hot a babe is. But, with her, I get a sense she's scared about something. I aim to find out what it is and fix it, if she'll let me.

Making my way down the back staircase, I'm accosted by triple trouble, namely Rogue, Shortstuff and Firecracker.

Rogue is the first to open her big mouth, "Whoa, Logan! You look awesome."

Attempting to keep off the gossip roster, I shrug and ease on past.

Firecracker cracks her bubble gum, "Whoooo, hot date 'r something Wolvie?"

Poking her with an elbow, Shortstuff says, "Gawd Jubes, you are so nosey."

Leveling the brat with an evil eye, I lash, "Wha'd I tell ya 'bout that Wolvie crap, Lee."

"Sooorrrreeee," she huffs.

Intimidated they ain't. Flapping their mouths with blatant speculation, they hang tight on my six as I make my way to the garage.

I get as far as the key rack before I turn on 'em. Thrusting my index finger, "You, you, and you," I laser 'em with my best death glare. "Shut yer yaps and beat it."

"Guys, I think he means it," Shortstuff squeaks. Rogue agrees with a nod and backs off.

Firecracker sasses, "Shit sake, Logan you're no fun at all."

Somebody ought to wash that kids mouth out with soap.

Grabbing Firecracker at each elbow, they scram. Peeking over her shoulder, Rogue prods a grin out of me getting the last word, "Whatever it is, hope ya have a nice time."

Feeling mighty fine pulling out of the garage in a midnight blue, nineteen eighty-eight Ferrari Testarossa, I lower the window and flash the brats a thumbs up. Bet your sweet buns I'm gonna have a nice time. If the date goes sour, at least I got a nice ride for the night.

xXx

Helping her on with her coat, I ask, "Ya hungry?"

"Starving. I haven't eaten since lunch."

"Izzat what all that rumbling's about? Thought somebody in the orchestra was getting a little too happy with the kettle drums."

Sue's cheeks flush pink, "Oh my gosh! Was it that obvious?"

Chuckling, I hook her arm in the crook of my elbow, "Prob'ly only to me."

"Oh, right. Heightened senses. Doesn't that make you crazy sometimes?"

I shrug. "Ain't so much noises that get to me as smells and tastes. Stuff most folks don't pay any attention to 'r notice at all."

"Hmm," she eases her arm out of my clutch. "How do you handle that or does you're healing…" She hesitates, scouts the territory, "Is it different for you?"

"No and yeah. One thing I can definitely smell is a good place to eat." I point to a small storefront across the street, "Into sushi?"

"Sure." She stops dead in her tracks, cutting me a scrutinizing look, "Are you sure the sushi place smells all that great or could the crowd waiting for service at this late hour have anything to do with it?"

I waggle my eyebrows and reach for her arm again. Clever rebuff, she switches her purse to the side I'm about to go for.

Fine! Have it your way, darlin', but these crazy, mixed up vibes you're throwing out are starting to piss me off. What gives? Frustrated and too chicken-shit, afraid I won't like the answer, to broach the subject, I shove my hands in my jacket pockets and clam up.

Waiting for a table, she's calmer. No doubt, space and a glass of wine help.

She muses, "Somehow, I didn't expect you to be the sushi type?"

"What's the sushi type?"

"Oh, don't get me wrong. You just seem like a steak and potatoes kind of guy."

"I'm definitely that. Guess you could call me a see-food kind o'guy."

She snickers, "Ba-dum-dum. You see food, you eat food. That is bad, really bad."

"Hey, with an opening like that how could I resist?"

There's a gleam in her eyes answering, "I'll watch what I ask next time."

"Mister Logan, table for two," cuts the conversation.

Settling in to secluded, high backed booth seats, she fiddles with a lime floating in the club soda she switched to, "Can I ask you something?"

Here we go with the negative vibes again. "Yeah."

"What was the deal in the coffee shop last Sunday?"

"Trust me, it wasn't about you."

"I'm relieved to hear it."

I ain't Neanderthal enough to misunderstand the expectant look on her face. She wants the whole story.

I chuckle into my sake glass and she asks, "What's funny?"

She shakes her head when I answer, "Ya ever notice the cop parked where Turkey Hill merges into Titicus?"

I gripe, "Lucky you." My turn to squirm, feeling pangs of….what? Guilt? Shame? Not over being busted but definitely over jumping down her throat the other day.

"Just before I pulled up to the café, the sonuvabitch busted me for not wearin' a helmet."

She claps a hand to her cheek, "Oh, poor baby. Not!"

Leaning forward, she flattens her palms on the table lecturing, "Do you know how many people come through the ER either DOA or with life altering traumatic brain injuries from not wearing head protection?"

"Yeah, well….got a helmet on the inside, ya know."

"Of course, and the cops know that, right?"

"Don't care whether they know 'r not. Go bust serious criminals and leave me the fuck alone."

"Helmets are the law and they're just doing their job."

"Yeah, whatever."

"So you were pissed because you got a ticket?"

I nod.

"I suppose I'd feel the same."

"Still didn't gimme the right to treat ya the way I did."

Snorting, I swallow more sake. No sense bullshitting the lady. Keeping my voice low, I explain, "Look, I know ya've probably read my psych profiles, so ya know I got a few quirks. Me not getting along with authority types ranks pretty high on the list. Sometimes all it takes is a word or gesture and…..and I get stupid."

"Okay, but I'm a little bit lost. Where do I fit into the puzzle?"

"Remember when ya asked me if Charles let me out to play, or something like that?"

Her jaw drops and I note a mix of incredulity and regret. "I'm sorry, Logan. I'll try to be more sensitive next time."

"Nah ah." Reaching across the table, I lift her chin and lock into her blue eyes, "There aren't many people in this world either dumb enough or gutsy enough to call me out when I need it. You're one of the gutsy ones and I don't want ya to change."

She makes me laugh out loud saying, "Glad you list me among the gutsy otherwise I might hafta flog you with a noodle."

The arrival of the waiter with our meals locks the conversation down. Once he's gone, it's my turn. "Can I ask you somethin'?"

"Of course."

"I'm sensing some seriously conflicted feelings from you. What's going on?"

Expected, her stress shoots through the ceiling. Eyes everywhere but on me, she picks at a finger nail. Even if I couldn't smell it, body language itself says I just hit bulls' eye.

She presses back into the seat cushion, "I didn't know telepathy was one of your mutations."

"It ain't."

"Then where'd you get such an idea?"

"Basic emotions have scent."

She mouths, "What?"

"I'm feral…."

The look on her face says she must've missed that part of my file. Damn, this ain't the place to go into this. Not in detail, anyway. Scanning, I realize the adjacent booths are empty and the couple at the closest table are making googly eyes bordering on porn. Somebody's getting lucky tonight.

"Keepin' it simple, fear, lies, guilt, joy, desire, they all have a scent. Most times I'm around you I get a snoot full of mixed up feelings, the strongest being fear. What are ya scared of?"

Please don't say me.

"Wow!" Picking at her fingernails gives way to drawing squiggles in the condensation beaded on her water glass. "Crap, if I didn't have to pick my car up from the park and ride and drive home, I could use another glass of wine."

With chopsticks, she stabs at an errant chunk of tuna on her plate before giving up and pinching it with her fingers. I wince at the glob of wasabi she scoops from the bowl.

"I wouldn't describe it as fear…..but….maybe so. I mean, emotion comes in varying degrees. I guess I would call it caution. Just like you . . . well, everybody, I have my own issues. My divorce and the junk that went on before and, to some extent, still goes on, is a big part of it. Maybe more than I care to admit, I haven't had good luck with subsequent relationships. The most recent fell apart less than six months ago, so I'm not sure I'm ready for a relationship right now."

Whoa! I almost choke on my drink. Who said anything about a relationship? I just want in your pants, babe. And you want in mine, if I have read some of your signals right.

Whom am I kidding? Yeah, I might. Do. But, hearing it out loud pounds between the eyes like a ball peen hammer.

"So, you saying you want me to back off?"

Flushing pink, she takes a swig of water and I don't think it's from the wasabi. "No. I like you but I want…. I need to go slow. It might not be fair to either of us but I've got to be in control. Can you understand that?"

I get a distinct scent of deception. Not a bald face lie. Something more subtle, a shading of a truth. Trouble is, I can't sort out the nuances and I don't wanna screw it up by jumping to a bum conclusion.

"Yeah, I think I do understand. I said it before and I'll tell ya again. We'll take things in your own sweet time."

Thinking we've beat this horse bloody enough for one night, I signal the waiter for the check. Sue doesn't surprise me asking if she can cover her share and she ain't surprised, inwardly or outwardly, when I say, "No way, darlin'."

"C'mon, I'll walk ya. Where'd ya park your car?" I'm careful this time not crowding her as we exit the restaurant.

"I left it at the White Plains Metro Station, so it might be kind of a hike."

"Whatcha do that for?"

"With traffic, it's actually faster riding the train."

And she thinks I'm letting her ride a train back to her car at quarter to midnight? "I'm parked a block over. I'll drop ya."

"You needn't bother."

"Lady…" About to screw up big time scolding her, I just shake my head. "You gonna turn down a warm car for a drafty, dirty train?"

She make a show of thinking about it then hooks her arm with mine, "Well, when you put it that way."

Halfway down the block, I sense another whiff of apprehension and she asks, "Are you sure it's not a bother?"

"Sue," I make a point of saying her name. "Even if it was clear out the opposite side of the county, there's no way in hell I'm gonna risk you taking the train this time of night."

She leans in, tiling her face towards mine, "You're sweet."

I snort, "Thanks." Been called many things but sweet ain't one of 'em. Ah well, if the foo shits.

We fill the half block stroll to the parking garage chitchatting about the concert. I can't help marveling how normal this is. How nice. How lovely she is. Am I lucky or what?

Close quartered in the garage elevator, I breathe her in. Gone is the heavy funk of earlier nerves, replaced by an aura of clean citrus and soft floral. She smells good. Wonderful. I'm fighting myself not to scoop her into my arms and kiss her supple, enticing lips.

The door slides open and I key the remote. There's a series of metallic bips as head and taillights flash, signaling the anti-theft system is disabled.

She stops dead in her tracks, "Holy crap! What kind of car is this?"

"Ferrari."

"Charles lets anybody borrow his cars?"

"Pretty much. One's he don't want messed with, he don't leave the keys on the rack."

"And the kids? He hasn't had any problems?"

"If a kid even thought about it, Charlie'd be on 'em like fly paper."

"Good point."

Paying the garage attendant a king's ransom, I can't help voicing my frustration by goosing the accelerator. Sue giggles, as the beast leaps to life with a brash squeal of rubber tires on smooth concrete.

Threading my way through traffic cones set out for pot hole repairs, I want to know, "How're ya settling in at Xavier's?"

"A breeze, so far. Everybody's been great."

She saves my conversationally inept ass elaborating, "I love the atmosphere of the place. The freedom the kids have to be who they are. The apparent commitment of the faculty and staff. I mean, it's more than just on a professional level. All y'all are family."

"Yeah, and I'm the black sheep."

"I don't believe that. Rebellious big brother, maybe."

"There's a difference?"

"I think so. Black sheep connotes willful misdeeds. You know, out to get them. I don't get that from you. You seem more like the my-way-or-the-highway type."

Look deeper, darlin'. My motto's get 'em before they get me.

"And there is no denying," she continues, "You've got a way with the kids. Your conduct when Ty broke his arm is a testament to that."

"Anybody'd done that."

"Don't be so modest."

Dunno what to say to that without possibly coming down with acute foot in mouth syndrome, so I zip it. Once free of city driving obstacles, I rummage through a stack of CD's and settle on John Coltrane. Let's see what the lady thinks about jazz.

Lost for a few miles in smooth riffs, I sense she's tired. The contagious yawn she stifles confirms it. We both laugh, simultaneously declaring, "Long day."

She goes quiet again but I get a strong sense curiosity's about to make her break out. Sure enough, after a bit, she says, "Can I ask you something personal?"

I nod.

"What's the friction between you and Scott Summers?"

"Eh, it started out bad but now….let's just say both 'us are more bark than bite. I like givin' him shit and he gives it back."

"Is that all?"

"Scott's got his ways. I got mine and we don't exactly jive a lot o'times. Didn't help back in the beginning I hit on his girlfriend."

"Jean Gray? Weren't they engaged?"

"Yeah."

"So then, is it just female docs or all the ladies you come on to?"

"Touché, darlin'. Lemme put it this way. They gotta be legal. Lookers are nice but I've known some baggers that'd rival Venus and Aphrodite on the inside. Go where ya want with that."

"No, I think I'll leave that right where it is. But, can I ask about something else?"

I reach across and trace my finger over her freckled, upturned nose, "Nosey little broad, ain't ya."

"Uh…oh. Never mind. I'm sorry."

"Don't be. Go on. Ask your question."

"Well….okay." Pausing, she huffs and licks her lips, "Admittedly, I got a bunch for your medical records, purely professional need to know, of course…"

"Of course," I parrot.

"Besides super-keen senses, what else goes with feral?"

"Instincts. Temperament. And ya know about the claws. There's times when I'm more animal than man. Most o'the time I'm in control but when it gets loose, I ain't safe to be around."

"What do you mean?"

"Something sets me off. Serious pain, threat, danger. You know, flight or fight instinct? Well, I fight. And with these…" Three metal tips peek from between my right knuckles. "Full out and the metal on my bones, I win."

"I guess so." The toss of her head says casual but her scent says otherwise.

Her mouth dips into a deep frown, "How was the metal fused to your bones?"

Chrissake, she can't come up with a more original question.

"They strapped me down, stuck my hide with a bunch o'big ass needles attached to hoses and pumped me full o'the stuff."

She looks like she doesn't believe me. Don't blame her. I wouldn't believe me.

"Molten metal? My god, how could anyone fathom doing that to another human being?"

"Because they could. Because they wanted to make me into a weapon. . ."

To kill my own kind but I can't make myself say it out loud.

"And if that wasn't enough, they brain-wiped me. That's why prior to nineteen eighty-eight, I've got no memories. Don't know who I am, how old, where I come from."

"I read in your record about the memory loss. I understand the role of traumatic injury and it's no stretch to think having molten metal fused to your skeleton qualifies as major trauma but selective memory deletion. Is that even possible?"

"Darlin', all I know is my memories start sixteen years ago when I woke up naked in a snowdrift somewhere in the wilds of northern British Columbia."

We'll leave the part out where I was covered in blood, most of it not mine.

"And that's when the symptoms of PTSD emerged?"

"Don't know anything 'bout PT-whatever but if you're talking about all that psycho-medical crap Charles and Jean wrote in my files, then I guess so."

"Who did this to you?"

I shrug, wishing I'd put a lid on it when she started in with can I ask something personal. "Don't matter. He's dead."

Slamming the steering wheel with my palm, my voice rough with hostility I say, "We're done with this."

She shakes her head, "I'm sorry."

I feel it. Rage. Bearing down like a runaway freight train. "I don't want a fuckin' pity party. Not from you. Not from anybody."

She reacts like I've slapped her, "Oh, no. That's not what I meant."

I jerk away as she reaches to touch my arm, "Logan, I'm sorry I didn't intend dredging up…..I should've known. I should mind my own p's and q's."

My rage eases and it's my turn for regrets. "Don't be. If we're gonna get to know each other, try on a . . .um . . . relationship, then . . . um . . .you gotta right to ask."

"Looking at it that way, I guess so. I'm still sorry."

"Shh." I take her hand, raise it to my lips and press a kiss into her palm, "No worries."

Murmuring, "Thank you," she looks for a minute like she's gonna bust into tears, then suddenly shifts gears. "Fair is fair. It's your turn to ask me something tough."

"What's a nice lady like you doing with a fucked up loser like me?"

She laughs and levels, "Maybe I'm not as nice a lady as you think."

"Your words, not mine, darlin'. But okay, since we're playing twenty questions, what's the story with you and bum relationships?"

Bam! Did I just push the red button or what? A freeway lamp flashes past, illuminating a face turned to stone. She gonna go nuclear on my ass?

Nope. Holding it back, she shifts in her seat, angling to stare out of passenger-side window and starts picking at a non-existent hang-nail.

Sighing, she presses her head against the seat back, her voice is heavy with regret, "Bad luck. Stupid choices. Unrealistic expectations. I wish I knew."

Not looking to dig myself in deeper, I just nod.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You're obviously single. What's your story?"

"Man livin' like I do. . . did ain't exactly conducive to anything long-term. And, uh, old habits 're tough to break."

"What did you do before Xavier's?"

"Whatever odd jobs came along."

"Nothing ever appealed to make you want to settle any where?"

"Sure. A couple times. But, the itch to move on got too strong 'r somebody'd get wise to my mutation, ya know."

"I can't imagine anybody with the guts to run you out of town."

"Hey, I bleed like anybody else. Naw, truth is it ain't worth it. Up there…"

"Up where?"

"North. Canada. There's plenty of places a man can just be."

"Yet, you're living in one of the most densely populated regions on the continent."

"Yeah," I chuckle. "Haven't quite figured out how that happened. B'sides, Charles pays good and so far, nobody's run me out."

She points to the right, "That's my exit. The lot's about two miles on the left." Chuckling softly, she says, "How did we spend the last half hour raking over such heavy stuff?"

"I think ya asked."

"Hmm. I think you're right." She rubs here hands together and grins, "So. how 'bout those Mets?"

I laugh, "Dunno about the Mets. Ask me about the 'Leafs or the Oilers and I'll bend your ear for a spell."

"Leafs? Oh right, hockey team. You're a fan?"

"Darlin', in my opinion, there's four things necessary to a man's survival."

"And they are?"

Pointing a corresponding finger, I recite, "Beer. Food. Sex. And hockey. Not necessarily in that order."

She laughs. "Uh, huh. Hockey, football, whatever. You're such a guy."

"I'll take that for a compliment."

"You do that. And now I know what to do with those game passes I get every now and then. Unless, of course, you're a nationalistic snob."

"Da hell that mean?"

"You only support Canadian teams."

"Hey, I'm equal opportunity. One US team 'r another's got just as much chance at losin'."

She pokes me on the shoulder. "You think so? Please explain how the Stars are on top this year?"

"Dallas? You're into them?"

"You betcha."

"Oh yeah, you're from there, aren't ya. Okay, I explain it to ya. Lucky break."

"Horse manure. Modano, Zubov and Turco are smokin'."

"I still say luck. Yeah, they earned the Stanley Cup in ninety-nine but they ain't done squat since. Shit! Last year they didn't even qualify."

"That was last year. You have to admit they look strong this year. Stronger than any Canadian team in any conference."

Goddamn. So much for blowing smoke up her skirt. "Maybe."

"No maybe about it. Check the stats."

"Okay. the lady a gold star for knowin' her stuff."

The provocative curve of her lips is damn cute as she offers a fat carrott, "It's not my Stars but the Devils play Ottawa next Wednesday night. I'm pretty sure I can get my hands on a couple passes. Are you interested?"

"I think ya could twist my arm."

"Shall we wager on the winner? Loser buys dinner?"

"Senators' and Devils' record is damn close. Sure ya wanna do that darlin'? Don't wanna take advantage."

"I'll start figuring out where I want you to take me for dinner."

Clutching the pants pocket with my wallet, I mime severe pain. "You do that," I say and hop out of the car. "Stay put," I tell her as she makes to get out herself.

She stays put but her cars' lights flash and I hear the locks disengage.

"It was a wonderful evening," she says emerging from the Ferrari. Her scent says she's sincere.

Suddenly, I'm at a loss for words. What the heck am I s'posed to do? Follow yer instincts, bub.

The wind blows a lock of hair across her face. Brushing it aside, I let my fingers trace the line of her cheekbone and jaw. As our eyes lock, I hear her heartbeat hammering inside her breast.

Taking her face in my hands, I say, "I'm gonna kiss ya goodnight."

Starting slow, the barest flutter of a touch, I test her scent and body language. Soft, warm lips reciprocate with mine as I feel her arms wrap around my waist. Giving her the lead, she closes the gap between our bodies, molding hers to mine. Despite the heat between us, she shivers as I tangle my fingers through her hair and challenge her with my tongue. As the kiss deepens, her pheromones react with mine. Close as we are, she knows what she's doing to me.

Breathing her in, I have the same effect on her but…damn. Something's off. She's fighting it but she going rabbit on me….again.

Lip lock broken, she nuzzles my 'chops, "And that's wonderful, too."

"There's more, if you want it."

"Don't I know it."

Palms on my chest, she takes a step back, "And that's the issue." She wrings her hands, "A little while ago you asked me what I'm afraid of. Maybe it is you."

She bows her head, "Please don't take this wrong," then traps my gaze again. "It's not the feral thing or. . ." she trails her fingers over the back of my hand, ". . . the claws. It's not your psych profile, though it probably should be if I have any sense. I… like you….I'm ….attracted to you. Maybe too much and that's what scares me. It's crazy. Maybe I'm crazy but my head says no. My heart says maybe and I guess there's no hiding from you what my body says."

"Sorry about that."

Her expression hollers, no you're not.

"And you know, try as I have, I just can't play by men's rules."

"What are you talking about?"

She puckers and blows a puff of air. "Casual intimacy. What's the jargon? Friends with benefits. I can't live like that and having been second fiddle when I thought I was first, I'll never put myself there again."

I think I'm the one with trust issues? "I think I figured that out a while back."

"I…I'm the whole package kind of gal. . . Understand what I'm saying?"

"You're saying ya don't sleep around."

"Exactly! Yes, but it's more than that. There's got to be a firm foundation, a strong relationship before I'll risk… it….intimacy. I don't give my body without giving my heart. And if I do, it's exclusively and I expect the same from my lover."

She looks me dead in the eye, "I guess the bottom line is this, Logan. Don't waste your energy and time on me unless you're willing to go along with who I am."

Hesitating, lost for words, the solitary predator inside my head howls warning. Run the hell away bub, before she's got ya roped, branded and a brass ring through yer snout. It doesn't get it that the man is fed up with running and the lone-ranger gig's worn thin.

"Fair enough, darlin'. You gotta be true to yourself and I respect that. It's gotta go both ways, though."

"Of course."

"Hold on. Lemme finish. You're looking for a noble knight on a white steed. That ain't me."

I'm a sleezeball drivin' a Harley won beating the shit outta some guy in a cage. I drink, I brawl and I screw around.

"I'm the guy your momma warned ya about and your daddy kept his shotgun oiled and loaded for."

Her laughter's restrained as she looks me up and down. "You nailed that one. Especially my dad. He wasn't keen on hippies or Mutants."

"Here's the thing. I like you too. I dunno…..maybe for the right reasons... maybe some of that nice of yours'll rub off and I can curb some o'those bad habits."

"That's the flip side, isn't it? When you get right down to it, I've got no right to impose my values on you. So, I guess we shake hands and say let's be friends."

"Or, we keep going like this. Talking. Enjoyin' each other's company. Then, when here," I tap her forehead. "And here," I lay my hand just above her breast, "Are synched and feelin' safe, we take it to the next level."

"When? You talk as if the next level is inevitable."

Don't understand why, but god, I hope so.

Lifing her chin, I plant a chaste and hopefully reassuring kiss on her lips, "It's all up to you, darlin' but even if it don't work out, I sure don't consider any time spent with ya a waste."

xXx

"What happened to you?" Paula Wellbourne, my colleague grills.

No make-up, shower damp hair whipped into a hurried ponytail, I'm a mess. Shapeless, drab hospital green scrubs do nothing to perk up my sleep deprived complexion.

"Overslept," I tell her after another swill of liquid life, my morning coffee.

"Wow. That's a rarity for you."

I nod as we make our way from the underground parking garage to the elevators. "I had tickets to Carnegie Hall last night. Got home way later than I planned."

"Nice. Who performed?"

"Nobody I've ever heard of but he was good."

A pair of nurses greet, "Good morning, doctors," as we emerge from the elevators at the nursery nurses station.

Paula and I smile our hello without breaking our conversation.

"You didn't go by yourself, did you?"

"Believe it or not, I had a date."

"Reeaalllly?"

"Really, really."

"Anyone I know?"

"Nobody from around here, so probably not."

"Glad to hear that. Anybody around here and I'd have to set you up for a psych eval."

"Oy! You are cold, so cold."

We laugh, no doubt both of us thinking about the dateable material here at the clinic.

What dateable men? Egos, baggage, neuroses, gender identity issues, players, interns and they're the nice ones. Anybody you'd want to date is already taken. Of course, give it time and they cycle back to the available list. Been married to a doctor, dated doctors so I know I do not want to be involved with another doctor ever again.

While scrubbing, she probes, "So this date, think they'll be another?"

"Maybe."

"Maybe from whose perspective?"

"If he asks me, I'll go out with him."

"But you won't ask him?"

"Already have," I motion to tie her steri-gown.

"Oh, thanks. Do tell."

"Just a hockey game."

"That can get expensive."

"Passes from the Asta Zeneca rep."

"Right. Smart. Where'd you meet him?"

"He coaches for the private school I'm practicing at."

"Ooohhh." Glancing around for busy bodies, Paula whispers, "Is he?"

"I don't believe you just ask me that!"

Her expression tells me she doesn't mean it _like that_ but, I'm still surprised by the question coming from one of my dearest friends.

"Am I?" is my calculated reply.

Her face turns pink as she splutters, "No. I don't think so. Are you? Oh gosh, Sue, good point. I'm sorry."

Relenting, "Don't worry about it," I lighten the vibes. "At the risk of sounding hopelessly clichéd, I will tell you that he is definitely tall, devilishly dark and devastatingly handsome."

"Can ya throw on any more cheesy adjectives, girlfriend?"

Recalling that exhibition he put on in the danger room the other day, I add, "Built like a god!"

She winks, "Marry him."

Laughing, I suggest, "When pigs sprout wings and fly."

xXx

Charles has a guy who keeps his collection of cars in shape but I figure if I borrow one, it's my job to leave it like I found it. Ain't no job about it, though. No better way to kill an afternoon and indulge in some heavy thinking than tinkering with and polishing a beauty like this.

Been doing a lot of thinking since last night trying to figure out if Sue's giving me a nice brush off. Scent says not quite, but lotsa ways to take her words. Ultimatum's one, buzzing my brain like a thirsty mosquito.

How'd this go from me scouting a new fuck buddy to….what? Not a goddamn thing is what.

Should've shook her hand and gone along with just being friends. Did I? Hell no! I bit down hard on the bait she dangled and now I'm swimming upstream with a hook stuck in my gullet. So what's it gonna be, Logan ol' man? Reeled in or cut loose?

My usual advice is trust your instincts. Trouble is, when it comes to this, instinct's had me on a losing streak that'd make the old Winnipeg Jets seem like playoff contenders. Sue ain't the only one who's crashed and burned. Difference between us is some of my lovers get hurt or worse because of me.

Naiomi. Now there was a woman. Half Cherokee and half Cajun equaled a hundred percent ball bustin' wild and wonderful. We'd hooked up fighting wildfires. Both of us caught on the steep slopes of Storm King Mountain, we suffocated in a sudden windswept firestorm. I'd have given everything to've given her – hell, the whole crew, my healing factor.

Jeannie never belonged to me but I loved her anyway. I'll never scrub away the image of her crushed by a mountain of water and nothing will ever cleanse me of guilt.

Ro was a rare gift. Instead of a storm, she was a comforting port after Jean died but we—hell, who am I kidding? Weren't no we. Just two grieving souls trying to survive. It ended the minute Elf came off his retreat 'r pilgrimage 'r whatever.

Then, there was Jessica*. Fire and honey wrapped up in one beautiful package. We didn't just crash and burn, we went supernova.

I have nightmares of others. Can't tell if the memories were put there by Stryker and his goons. But, they suffered ugly deaths by my hand or by association with me.

Who should cut who loose?

"Hola, miho," Electra's melodic Spanish accent cuts through Pink Floyd blaring out of wall mounted speakers in the four corners of the garage.

"Back at ya, darlin'."

She strides within an arm's length and plants both hands on her hips. "Aren't you the secret Don Juan."

I quit polishing and fumble for the stereo remote. "Say what?" Pretty sure I know what she's getting at, just don't know how much she and Sue gabbed.

"You surprised me, that's all. Flowers, the symphony."

"Piano concerto," I correct.

"Right. I saw you leave, all gussied up. And this," she gestures to the car.

"Hey, I come outta my cave every now and then."

She laughs, "Who are you and what have you done with that hombre malo, Wolverine?"

I grin and go back to buffing paint.

"Hmmph!" She's clearly irritated at my clam imitation.

Deal with it, chica.

"I'm heading for Costco. Need anything?"

I dig out my wallet and produce a tattered green and white picture of Ulysses Grant, "Couple cases of Moosehead."

"Sorry, Logan. It's Bud, Miller or Coors."

I'll never be that desperate. Shuddering, I stash the cash back into my wallet. "Nah thanks. I'll jack one of the jeeps later and forage for m'self."

Easing one of the panel vans past me, she rolls down the window and says, "I think she's good for you, miho."

I play dumb. "Who?"

Laughing, Electra gets my aversion to gossip, "Okay, okay. I know nada," and drives away.

Two fingers angled to the side of my fore head, hope she reads the gesture as a salute of appreciation.

Wadding up and tossing the chamois cloth into a bin, I zone out on my reflection in the ink-blue shine. Electra's prob'ly right about one thing. Susan Harris is good for me.

But as everything my psych profile says and worse, am I good enough for her?

XXX

_***Jessica belongs to RhiannonUK. Theirs is such an epic love story I couldn't resist borrowing her for a moment. Read **__**A Force of Nature**__** or **__**Full Metal Anarchy**__**.**_

A/N Allright, people. I know I don't post as prolifically as others but a lack of detailed reviews does contribute to my lax efforts. C'mon, like everyone, I do need feedback. Believe it or don't, negative feedback lights a fire under my posterior as much as positive ones do. Gr. Chap. does NOT count. I particularly would like to hear from a few author's I regularly provide feedback to. SJ, C-C and W, you know who you are. I TRULY WANT TO KNOW EXACTLY WHAT YOU THINK. The only critique I'll disregard is profanity-laden flaming. Fair flaming is exactly that-fair.


	7. Chapter 7

CHAPTER SEVEN

_A/N: It's confirmed. I have no brain in my head. I'm reposting this chapter with a bit of expansion. The basics haven't changed but I hope the added detail adds more interest to it._

His battered and beloved Harley Davidson whizzes past me on the gravel driveway leading to Xavier's mansion. Pebbles crunch and spray as we screech to simultaneous halts. Surprise! The big dork isn't wearing a helmet.

He circles and pulls up beside me, "Whatcha doin'?"

"Where are you going?" I ask just as his question registers in my brain.

We laugh, stepping on each other answering. "You first," I say.

"Nowhere special."

"Oh, great. I have a break in my schedule this evening so I thought I might make good on that dinner offer I made the other day."

"Best deal I've had all day."

"Park your baby," I say, referring to his motorcycle.

By the lopsided grin, I can tell he's tickled as I surrender the driver side of my Jaguar and dangle my keys. "Would you like to drive?"

Gallant rascal, he escorts me to the passenger side.

"Hey, Doc," Scott Summers rounds the portico, his neck scarf, whipping in the chilly wind. "I just sent you . . ." His easy expression vanishes, no doubt spotting Logan. "An e-mail. There's a quick staff meeting tomorrow. Eight a.m."

"Thanks. I'll try to adjust my rounds so I can be there."

A guarded smile returns, probably appreciating my cooperation, though I can't miss another abrupt transformation speaking to Logan, "I stuck a note on your door since you can't be bothered with e-mail."

"Scooter, I've been here how many months, now? I kinda got the fuckin' Friday morning staff meeting burned in right here." He points to the side of his head.

"Yeah? Well, it's the eight a.m., _**sharp**_, part you seem to miss."

Logan snarks, "Not everybody's definition of sharp is fifteen minutes early," and waves him off as he closes the Jaguar's passenger door.

"I'm not a big fan of staff meetings, either," I commiserate as we tool down the driveway.

"Aw hell, I don't give a shit 'bout 'em. They serve a purpose most o'the time. Just don't bother me with nit-noid details. Like what brand o'toilet paper for the staff crapper."

Fawning, I declare, "Oh, but don't ya know toilet paper is of utmost importance."

His laugh is rich and warm, "Then you're elected to head up the personal sanitation committee."

Clasping my hands and raising them over my head saying, "Alas, my highest aspiration in life is now achieved," earns another genuine chuckle.

Geeze Louise! His smile could light up half the county.

"So, where's this place?"

"One Twenty One?"

"If that's where the food is, yeah. I'm hungry, lady."

Titicus to Peach Lake Road, north bound. Know where the Salem Golf Club is?"

"Yes'm, I do."

A few minutes up the road, I dig my phone out of my purse. "Good evening, Marco. This is Doctor Harris . . . I'm about fifteen minutes away. Is my favorite table open anytime soon? . . . Thanks . . . You're a gem, good sir."

_xxx_

Two hours later, stuffed to the gills, we're sipping after dinner drinks, chatting and relaxing to a local jazz quartet. It took Logan about half the time to seem settled. Probably out of his comfort zone in a restaurant like this and in light of our serious conversation the other night, I'm sure he senses I'm sizing him up. But, I think it goes both ways.

He's such a puzzle and it's making me crazy. One minute he's jagged and crude, the next he seems charming and erudite. I've witnessed him nurture a child, then later commit vicious homicide against a holographic enemy.

Diplomatically posing a question earns me a shrug at first followed by a crafty smirk. "What ya see is what ya get."

"Baloney."

"Look, playing rude, crude and dumb keeps the bastards guessin'. It's a ruse. A disguise. And it's been keenly instrumental to my survival for the almost two decades, probably longer."

"See, there you go. You're like . . . like Jekyll and Hyde"

"Good one." Leaning closer, his voice a shade louder than the music, is difficult to hear without strict attention and a bit of lip reading. "Remember what I told ya about my bones?"

I nod.

"And told ya my head got messed with, too?"

"Right."

"Well, Charles' pet theory and it makes some sense to me, is whoever I was before that happened is still in here."

"Okay. This is related to amnesia?"

He nods just as the last notes flow from a saxophone and the quartet announces a break.

The lights come up and Logan's eyes dart around the room, settling for seconds at a time on each group of diners. Adjacent conversations invade our bubble of space.

"Not half bad, eh?"

I shake my head, not a clue what he's talking about.

"And you're right on the money when ya said the grub's to die for."

"Um, how did we go from pet theories to…..?" Oh duh, Susan. He doesn't want to be overheard. "I told you you'd love it."

Squeeeeeeee. He's rubbing his finger over the lip of the crystal brandy snifter.

The noise breaks me out with goose bumps on top of goose bumps. I beg, "Please don't do that."

"What?"

"Rim the glass. I can't stand it."

He exhales and the candle centered on the table flickers, "Sorry." Stretching out his long legs so that they just glance by the bottom of my pants, he rocks back on his chair. Flashing a naughty grin, he flexes his fist, "Betcha'd just love metal on a chalkboard."

I snipe, "About as much as my annual visit to the gynecologist. I'm off to the ladies room. Try to behave."

The rise of his eyebrows says he didn't expect my retort. Inflated ego dominating, he salutes me with his drink, "Always do, darlin'."

Thinking he is so full of shit, I join a short queue of women with the same goal in mind.

I'm just settled again in my chair when from across the room a tray of drinks crashes to the floor. Logan's reaction alarms me. Lightning fast, he's on his feet, scanning the room, nostrils flaring, he looks like he about to attack, all before the sound of tinkling glass ceases.

A provocatively dressed young woman at a nearby table develops a case of giggles and Logan sneers. She huffs, "Whatever," and commences an animated conversation with her metrosexual looking date.

What is that? Logan's growling?

Seconds hang like long minutes. A few dinner patrons glance nervously in our direction. Logan squares his shoulders, utters, "Fuckin' ay," and eases back into his chair.

Uh huh. There's a classic post traumatic stress reaction if I've ever seen one.

Bad timing, our waiting make an appearance. "Apologies for the disturbance. May I offer a refill for the gentleman?"

"Hey bub," Logan's voice retains an unnatural depth and grit. "If I want somethin', I'll tell ya."

Taken aback and probably insulted, the waiter replies, "Very good, sir," and immediately focuses on me. "Ma'am?"

Embarrassed, for a moment I debate kicking Logan's shin. Instead, I cut Logan a critical squint then smile effusively at the waiter, "I'm well. Thank you."

"Just leave the bottle," Logan relents, the edge off his tone.

"As you wish." Setting the bottle down, the waiter beats a hasty exit.

"Do we need to leave?" I offer.

"Music's fine. Company's enticing and the liquor's smooth. Up to you darlin'. I'm good."

"Okay." I don't mask the doubt in my voice and note another classic sign of deep emotional issues. Namely, the abrupt shift from hypervigilence to insouciency.

As the quartet begins another set and the dance floor fills, Logan draws me back into his confidence. "After I escaped . . ."

"Escaped?"

"From the sons o'bitches that fucked me over."

"Right. The ones responsible for your amnesia?"

I must seem skeptical because he turns defensive explaining, "Try to understand. I was screwed up. Just an animal tryin' to survive. I spent a long time . . . um . . . recovering."

He sounds gritty and deep, "I'm serious!" as I shake my head, unable to imagine him or anyone in such a condition.

"I'm sorry. I'm trying to understand. Please don't stop."

He takes a breath to speak but halts until a couple passes by our table.

"What they did to me made me crazy, I mean bugfuck nuts, sent my feral nature into overdrive. A rabid pit bull's safer, more predictable 'n I was. . . am." He speaks softly but it's rapid fire and passionate.

"How did you . . ." I'm grappling for the right words, "Come back to yourself?"

"For months I hid out from humans. Hunted, killed, sometimes stole to eat. Slept in the open or a cave if I was lucky."

Hands wrapped around the crystal snifter, he's still tense and I'm concerned he'll crush it. Something tells me, though, a comforting touch isn't a good idea.

"Over time, I guess, I came to realize existing like that kinda sucked. In the territory I ranged were some vacation cabins . . ."

Doggone it! A slightly inebriated loudmouth at a nearby table breaks Logan's stream of conversation. Clenching his jaw exposes perfectly aligned bottom teeth. He pivots in his seat and keeping it local, his voice bleeds sarcasm, "Hey bub, nobody gives a flyin' fuck about your pecker or your surgery."

Obviously beyond mortified, the poor mans face is red as boiled ham. His table mate, his wife I suppose, appears as if she can't decide who to pop in the mouth: Her husband or my date.

For a moment it's touch and go, evil eyes a-plenty. I do see where Logan's coming from though I had no problem filtering mister prostate surgery out. But, he's not sitting directly behind me, either. Crap sakes, escalation is not what we need and choosing sides - not going there. Luckily, calm soon prevails as the man signs off his tab, grabs his wife by the elbow and beats a hasty exit.

"Hope he ain't drivin'," Logan quips and I nod affirmative.

"Where was I?"

I suggest, "Vacation cabins."

"Yeah. It was off-season, so nobody was home. I broke into a couple, helped myself to whatever they had."

His expression becomes distant. Draining then setting his glass on the table, he's a man in deep, perhaps conflicted thought. Exhaling slowly, he leans in, elbows on the table and eyes roving between me and his empty glass.

"Long story short: This couple owned the cabin I squatted in at the time. Took me by surprise. How does a wild animal react when it feels cornered?"

I shake my head

"It attacks."

"It does? You did?"

He nods, "And Mac did what he had to do."

I think I know what's next, "Go on."

I can't stop from wincing as Logan explains, "He shot me. Point fuckin' blank in the chest. Should've been the end. Anybody else would've."

"Healing factor, right?"

"And adamantium armor.

Anyway, I lived, Mac and Heather ended up friends o'mine and everyone lived happily ever after."

From the bitterness in his voice, a fairy tale it wasn't. He doesn't elaborate and I don't pry.

The fire in his eyes diminishes. "Back to your question. What the hell was it?"

"Mmm, your seemingly split personality."

"Wish I knew. The easy answer is I've been living a rough life, with rough folks. Talkin' like a professor doesn't cut it lumberjackin', pumping crude, cage fighting, jobs like that."

"Good point."

"But, sometimes I get flashes. Myself in places, doing things that don't fit the mold or make sense."

"Like what?"

He shakes his head, picks at the seam of the napkin piled beside his glass and continues, "There're things I know, skills I possess and I don't have a clue how I know it."

He's back to hand gestures, "Get this: I speak half a dozen languages fluently. How? When the hell did I learn 'em? Don't remember living in those places. I know military weaponry. How to handle 'em. Again, how? Why? Other things. You get the picture?"

"I sure do see the merit in Charles' hypothesis."

"Yeah and he's been working with me, helping me to remember."

"Not as successfully as you'd like, huh?"

"About fifty-fifty. But it's no easy thing for either of us."

"Why? Is it painful?"

Angling his head for emphasis, there's a load of impatient frustration in his voice, "We talked about this the other night. Figuring out what's real or implanted is like trying to put scrambled eggs back in their shell, yolks and whites intact. And yeah, it's painful. Dangerous, too."

"How so?"

"Headaches, for one. Doesn't last long for me but I've known the professor to get laid low for a day after one of our sessions. Triggers nightmares, too. Bad enough and the claws come out. Ain't pretty when that happens."

Leaning on my elbows, it's my turn to gaze past him, digesting the conversation. My feelings are in such a muddle. Is he, is all he says for real? Gifted, powerful mutant or not, it all seems incredible. Okay then, but isn't it time to deal with it or forget it and move on? And yet, I have pity for him, an almost maternal compulsion to make it, him better, make the bad things go away. Doubtful he'd appreciate such sentiments. I can only do what I can do.

"Paging Doctor Sue," he murmurs.

"Huh? Oh, sorry." I trail my finger through and then lick the strawberry glaze remains of my cheescake. "I was just thinking about your blood work. Wondering what's to be discovered when the profile comes back."

He shrugs, "Prob'ly another dead end."

"Such a pessimist."

"Realist."

"If you say so.

He seems beyond bleak as he closes his eyes and droops his head murmuring, "And sometimes the debt of finding out can never be paid."

There's a story behind his lament but I don't ask. He gives no further opening, staring past me, fingertips drumming on the table top to the beat of the music.

Going quiet, a little bit fatigued by the heavy conversation, I drift with a mellow Count Basie tune. This was supposed to be a fun evening.

Almost like he's reading my mind, he leans back, drains his glass and chuckles, "Dunno what it is but every time I'm around you I get a massive case o'diarrhea of the mouth"

It takes everything I have not to choke and expel wine out my nose. "Oh god! That's revolting," I say from behind my napkin.

"How come you're laughing?" he deadpans.

Between barely stifled giggles a coughing, I say, "A wholly inappropriate visual image." Clearing my throat, I point subtly to the half empty bottle on the table, "Maybe that has something to do with the verbal runs."

"Not on this," he chuckles, and pours another two fingers of twenty year old cognac."Enough about me, darlin'. Tell me what's made you into the woman you are."

I don't know why but I blush and stammer, "Uh, well . . . there's certainly nothing all that dramatic or special about me. I'm half cowgirl, half army brat."

"Yeah?" he chuckles. "How's that work?"

"Born in Misawa, Japan, travelled all over during vacations but mostly reared in a house in the 'burbs of Dallas and the Four Sisters Ranch northwest of Fort Worth."

"Nice."

"Attended Ursaline Academy then Texas A&M and got my medical degree from Baylor."

"Sounds like ya weren't exactly hurtin' growin' up?"

"Oil and gas wells pay the bills. Still does. Ranching's secondary but lucrative enough."

"Got brothers 'r sisters?"

I shake my head, "My brother passed away over ten years ago, just a few months after my mom."

"Whoa. Sorry."

I smile my gratitude for his sympathy. "And my father's gone, too," I finish a bit more crisply than I should because those issues are too fresh and endlessly complicated. Logan doesn't need to hear that my deceased father was an opportunistic, controlling, intolerant, philandering, ruthless, son of a gun. Not yet, anyway.

"It's not that I'm cast adrift without any family," I say more gently. "I've got my boys. Plus, aunts and uncles and cousins out the kazoo on my mothers' side. And my dad has a kooky, colorful brother who visits when the wind blows his sailboat this way."

Once started, I really do blab up a storm so I keep watching for him to get that glazed, _will she ever shut up_ look. But, he seems to hang on every word, genuinely smiling and spurring me on with more questions. And oh, when he smiles, his eyes shine. I could just swoon.

"How'd ya end up in New York?"

"I did my residency at the Maria Fareri Children's Hospital right here in Valhalla. That's where I met my first husband. He was one of my professors. After residency, I joined a practice and've been here ever since."

Our waiter makes his rounds, cautiously offering refills and coffee. Logan eyes me but I say, "No thanks."

He instructs the waiter, "Coffee and the check," and it sure sounds like he's chilled out quite a bit.

"Hey! This is my treat. Remember?" I complain.

"True but…" his eyes land on the empty bottle of Grand Marnier® and then flit to our waiter, attending another table. "No harm in me picking up the tip."

Check delivered, Logan takes brief gander. I spy his adam's apple bob with a slight raising on his eyebrows.

Yep dude, this place isn't a roadside café.

Treating me to a wink and cute, crooked grin, he stuffs a trio of twenties into the bill folder and slides it across the table.

Awesome. If I thought tonight had turned into that impassable speed bump, Logan has put it back in gear and eased us over. He's a keeper.

Maybe.

xxx

Restless.

And bored.

That's me tonight.

Can't concentrate on a book. Channel surfed the tube 'til I got a cramp in my thumb. Thought about hitting one o'my favorite watering holes. Got as far as straddling my bike in the driveway before the urge evaporated like my breath in the cold night air. Cheap beer, darts and random dames can't complete with earlier this evening.

Replaying that lingering, teasing goodnight kiss, initiated by her this time, only serves to kick the heat up a couple notches. She feels it, too and tonight for the first time, I didn't get a whiff of fear - just the musky, sweet scent of her wanting.

Whipping out my seldom used cell phone, I punch the auto-select without thinking. The sound of a drowsy, "Doctor Harris," shocks me back to reality.

Dumb shit, it's almost midnight. "Hey, it's me."

I can tell she's stifling a yawn as she asks, "Is something wrong?"

"No. Just called to . . ." Hear your voice. . . "Make sure ya got home safe."

"Safe, sound and in one piece," she laughs softly. "Thank you."

"Good."

I barely stop myself from asking what she's doing but give myself the start of a hard-on imagining her writhing underneath me as I bury myself inside her curvaceous body.

Not looking to say something that might spook her, I sign off with, "It's late. I'll, uh, let ya go. See ya t'morrow."

"Okay. B'bye, Logan."

"'Night, darlin'."

Making my way up the back staircase for my quarters and a hot shower, I hear the hum of an elevator. A second later the door hisses open.

"Good evening, Logan." After hours casual, in a dark turtleneck and tan trousers, it's Charles' making his usual post-Cerebro session rounds.

Ever since Stryker's goons tore up the place, we've all got our particular insomniac routines. Yeah, there's designated personnel on twenty-four hour watch. Pain in the ass every four nights but a necessary evil.

Charles' eyes scan me like beams from an x-ray machine, "I trust your evening was enjoyable?"

"Not bad." Do you always hafta do that?

_She's a lovely, talented woman,_ echoes inside my mind. Teasing, he answers, "On the contrary. You do project at times," and shoots a conspiratorial wink my way.

Still worked up by thoughts of Sue, for a second I wonder if he's talking about my upper or lower brain projections. "Yeah, I guess I do and yeah, she's is."

_Your decorum is intact._ "I'm at loose ends myself this evening. Care to join me in a game of Chess?"

Telepathy versus hyper-keen senses, Charles is a damn worthy opponent, though I'd rather stump the chump over poker. I surrender, "Sure," and track beside his hover chair to the game room.

xxx

_Mmmm. _

_Oohhh_.

_I reach down, tangle my fingers in his hair and nudge him millimeters higher. His tongue is warm velvet. _

_Oooohhh yes. _

_He's exactly where I need him. My pelvis rocks against his mouth. _

_Faster. Faster. _

_Ooooh. _

_Like that. _

_Mmmm. _

I sit straight up in my bed. Gasping, my heart thunders almost painfully in my ears. The cats, previously curled at my feet, spaz and head for the hills. Hills being under the dresser.

Veiled in a fine sheen of perspiration, I shiver and wrap the covers tightly to myself. My breasts and uterus ache, protesting an aborted orgasm. Or is it a harbinger of my period? Both, probably.

Trudging to the bathroom to pee does nothing to clear my addled brain and congested innards. How long has it been since I had a dream this real? My normal is a vague impression of a dream lover. Not this time.

And I've got clinic over there today! And he senses feelings? Oh, forget it. In six hours time I'll have forgotten all about it.

Snuggling under flannel and down, "Tchk, tchk, tchk," I summons Cleo and Trixie. Kneading the blankets at my feet, they sound like motorboats as they settle into their customary roosts.

The clock says thirty minutes has passed and I'm still wide awake. I groan, yawn and clutch the spare pillow to my body. I'm not forgetting one single detail. My imagination's in overdrive vividly recalling the muscled contours of his body that I've witnessed firsthand in the holographic whatchamacallit room and felt thanks to a trio of memorable kisses. There's an X-rated movie playing all sorts of continuations and return favors in the back of my mind.

Maybe I should call in sick tomorrow morning.

Another half hour goes by and I'm not any closer to sleep. If anything, I'm more in need of scratching an itch. Dammit. Damn you, Logan. Ya've gotten under my skin.

Shoving the cats off the bed, I surrender to the urge. Pleasuring myself, I finally drift into a restless half-snooze.

xxx

Summers settles on the lat machine diagonal to the bench press I'm abusing myself with. Looks like he sucked a lemon this morning as he starts with, "Did I seriously see what I thought I saw last night?"

"'Mornin' to you too, Sunbeam. Dunno. What'd ya see?"

"You hitting on the new doc."

I grunt though it ain't from the effort of pumping iron.

High on spreading his own brand of righteous, he plows ahead, "She's been here what? Not even two weeks."

Just to leave him hang, I take my time adding more weights. "Three weeks," I grunt between reps, "two days."

"Geeze! You are hitting on her."

The yahoo never will learn when it's time to quit. "Not that it's any o'your fuckin' business but . . . it's none o'your fuckin' business."

"Right. As long as your effing business doesn't screw up Team cohesiveness."

Obnoxious prick knows he's pushing my buttons and I'm tempted to drop this weight on his head. But, kick in the chest painful as his point is, it's valid.

"Goddammit, Scott!" My voice cracks, "Let it rest." After all this time, my anguish is almost as raw as day one.

He means Jessica and how he and I damn near killed each other over her. She'd been manipulated, altered, to get to me. Once she wised up, she couldn't handle it. Blamed me. Said I should've sensed it. Said my lovin' her amounted to rape! She dumped me for Summers. And to twist the knife in worse, aborted our baby.

"You're right, Logan."

Holy shit! I damn near lose my grip on the weight. Did I hear right? Yep. Regret overpowers sweat.

There's no malice in me saying, "Forget it." It ain't a proud chapter for him or me and I'm still amazed Charles didn't jettison both of us clean outta New York State over the whole mess.

I hoist the weight onto the rack, grab for a towel and mop my face. "And, um, just for the record, what ya saw last night was Sue thanking me for helping out with Ty's broken arm."

I don't wait around for his comeback but on my way out of the gym, I can't resist poking his pride. "Fifteen 'til eight, bub. Don't be late." For the staff meeting's what I'm talking about.

The bird he flips is friendly – sort of.

xxx

Don't it figure? The one time I'm motivated to be on time, my motivator ain't. To rub salt in it, today's Valentine's Day or more concisely, tonight is – I'm going to puke – the annual Valentine's Dance. The resident brats' been making a huge to-do about it for a week already. Decorations to make my eyes bleed and saccharine sentiments enough to put even me in a diabetic coma. Nobody thought it funny when I scribbled devil horns and a Fu Manchu mustache on a cardboard Cupid hanging in the main entry hall. Thank the fates my only job is helping Vic set up the sound system. He's the dumb shit, volunteering as deejay. I'll probably hang around for a while – just to make sure the system's balanced and dish out a little grief. After that, I'm out.

Gonna stir up a bit of trouble and fun. There's a fight club in the heart of District X, Mutieville as a not so few call it. According to Charles, it's s'posed to be off limits. But, the throw-downs are barely legal, the lounge lizards are easy and booze is cheap and strong enough for me to get a buzz on. It's worth the grief I might suffer. B'sides, it ain't likely a joint catering to bunch of degenerate misfits'll pay heed to an inane, over-commercialized excuse for a holiday.

Sue shows up forty minutes into the briefing breathless and all apologies, "So sorry. I'm on call and there was a baby boom overnight," as she slides into a seat beside Electra.

Damn! That's three seats too far away. I catch her eye and she turns the same shade as the ruby, heart shape stone on the necklace nestled between cleavage that I wouldn't mind suffocating in. A second later, her scent, a weird mix of titillation, embarrassment and frustration, tickles my senses.

Okay, she ain't a mind reader. Is she? What gives?

There's squat on the bad-guy radar, nothing unusual happening training or academic-wise. Short and to the point, I say my piece then spend the remainder of the meeting shielding my lascivious thoughts with feral background junk and trying not to come off like some voyeuristic jerk-off every time my eyes track across the table to her.

Afterwards, I swing by my office and discover stupid Cupid's paid a visit. The delectable aroma of dark chocolate doesn't quite cover the scent of Rogue and company, sweaty gym socks and worse. Enough of me still lingers in the kids' head so she knows what I do or don't go for. American-made, sickening sweet, chocked with wax and chemicals chocolate is a don't.

Sure enough, wrapped in a shiny, bright red heart shaped box are a dozen, probably pricey, truffles. Closer olfactory inspection tells me the goodies are filled with liqueurs. Oh yeah! I bite into a big, fat, almost black orb from the box's center. Bitter-sweet melds with black raspberry. Nice. Very nice, but it's gonna be a long wait if the little minx's are expecting return favors. Not even a break on grades.

There's a card taped to a lumpy package wrapped in blue paper. Unfolded, it reads: **_Logan, we know this is kind of personal…._**

Uh oh.

**… _but when Jubes saw the sad condition of your laundry a while back, we sort of took pity on you._**

Da'hell?

**_Marie says it's the right size and even though it was really hard not to, we didn't get anything dorky. Love, __Jubilation __and __Kitty._**

Squeezing and scrunching the soft, malleable package, I'm genuinely petrified to open it. It ain't hard to guess the contents. It's the definition of anything dorky. Peeling a corner of the paper aside reveals white. Splitting the seam, I laugh, relieved to see a six pack of plain ol' sleeveless undershirts – so called wife beaters. Beneath is another six pack, this time dark blue, green, grey and black boxer briefs.

I laugh again, warmed and grateful not to be subjected to Pac Man, Smiley Faces or worse. I suppose a gift of underwear from a student to a teacher might, in the normal world, be frowned on. What the hell? Nothing's normal about Xavier's School or the kids and that's all right by me.

Eh, maybe I'll try remembering Valentine's next year.

xxx

Grabbing a cup o'coffee and a chunk of Mrs. Burns' buttery, cinnamon coffee cake between classes, right behind me I catch her scent and hear, "Miho." Electra's got that lilt in her voice, the lilt that tells me she's got something on her mind that I probably don't wanna hear.

"I didn't see any pretty flowers on a certain doctor's desk today."

I shrug and stuff a hunk of cake in my face. A shower of crumbs looks like dandruff against my dark green t-shirt.

"Ay, yi, yi! What are you doing? You have the perfect opportunity and you do nothing."

She lapses into Spanish reading me the riot act and I'm tempted to clamp a hand over her mouth. But, her rant is whispered so I cross my arms over my chest and let her have her way with me.

"You done?" I ask as she inhales. Or is she reloading?

Hands on her hips, she nods, "Si."

"If you were anybody else you wouldn't be standing right now, ya know? You're a good lady, a friend and I know you got my back, but I'm askin' ya, leave it alone. Please."

She starts to say something but I shush her with my finger to her lips. "You were right-on in the garage yesterday. There's stuff going on. . . but . . . it's complicated. You playin' matchmaker ain't gonna help."

Her smile is gentle and her scent says she understands. "Okay... I know you're not the materialistic sort . . . but if you let today go by and do absolutely nothing . . . you might regret it."

Offering, "I'll think about it," I grab what's left of the coffee and scoot past. I'm out of time for debate before my weapons class is due to start.

xxx

Working like a crazy woman, I'm trying to wrap up for the afternoon. Xavier's clinic and on-call is adding up to one of those days. I haven't had five minutes break to pee.

I hear a soft, low, "Hey!" It's Logan, sauntering through the door.

"Hey, yourself." I glance up, appreciative he didn't startle the tee-tee out of me, but don't pause tapping at my computer keyboard.

He looks serious with thick, dark eyebrows set in a straight line, mouth matching, as he crosses his arms over his chest and leans against the door frame, "Ya alone?"

Concentrating on my notes, my answer is vague, "Mmm hmm."

"Where were ya lunch time today?"

"Right here."

"Right. I mean, Why didn't . . . I didn't see ya in the dining room."

I shrug, "Couldn't catch a break so I grabbed a bite at my desk."

"Hmmpf."

My flesh tingles and I just know he's staring at me.

"That all?" he presses.

"Huh?" What else does he expect? "What do you mean, is that all?"

"Not sure but I got weird vibes from ya this mornin'. Something wrong?"

Feeling heat rise in my face compels me to turn away. I really should've called in sick.

"See. There ya go."

Frick frack! What do I say? He'll know if I lie. "Nothing's wrong. Just chalk it up to something that I'm not quite ready to share."

Squinting, an inverted V forms between his eyes as he studies me. I feel aggravated that I can only guess what's going on in that mind of his.

A lopsided grin bisects his face. "Fair enough. Just wanna be sure we're okay."

"**I'm** okay."

Abruptly, his expression dulls. He nods, exhales deeply and his posture sags as he backs up toward the exit.

It doesn't take super-senses to realize I've just cut him down more than I intended.

I say, "Logan," just as he turns to leave. "It's a little too soon for we . . . but . . . I promise if I hit a serious speed bump getting there, after me, you'll be the next one to know."

The smile, slightly restrained, is back, "I can live with that."

"I'm glad. Now I'm crazy busy so can we catch up later?"

"Anything ya say, darlin'. Can I help?"

"Yes you can."

His expression tells me he wasn't expecting a yes.

"Tyler was supposed to stop by for a re-check. Would you mind rounding him up for me?"

"My little broken arm buddy?"

"That's the one."

"Back in a couple," he says on his way out the door.

Ten minutes later, they're back. I ask Tyler to wait while I finish my work. Though the door between the waiting area and my desk is closed, I see him through the glass. I'm surprised Logan's still hanging around. Curious, I switch on the waiting area receiver and eavesdrop on the conversation. What I hear makes me smile.

"Hey coach, guess what?"

"Ain't got a clue, kid."

"Miz Munroe says ain't isn't a word and it's bad grammar."

He scolds, "'Scuze me," and I see Ty flinch.

Chuckling, Logan forms and points a pistol with his hand, "That's why she's teachin' that stuff." Poking himself in the chest, he concludes with, "And I'm not. This better? Haven't got a clue."

Ty's nod seems almost obedient but I swear the gleam in his eyes is anything but. "When I use my powers, I can't make the broken part of my arm go invisible. It's too weird."

"Lemme see," Logan encourages.

With the exception of his broken arm, Ty fades into what looks like heat waves reflecting off a blacktop road in summer.

"Whoa! You're not kiddin'. Ask Doctor Sue 'bout that. Get visible again before you get us both in trouble."

Solid once more, he fidgets and fools around with magazines and games on the coffee table. "Hey Coach?" He displays a marking pen, "Will you sign my cast? Everybody else has 'cept you and Doctor Sue."

Logan's kinda cute making a to-do obliging the boy. Considering the amount of time it's taking, I think he's doing more than just adding his autograph.

Ty confirms it exuberantly exclaiming, "Cool! Wish I had real claws like you, Wolverine."

"No ya don't, kid." I can't see Logan's face, but bunching of shoulder and back muscles and his tone is a clue he's not happy with Ty's brand of admiration.

"H - how come?" Ty recoils.

Logan squeezes the boy's shoulder. The edge off his voice, he explains, "Ya think your busted arm hurts? Try worse every time the claws come out. Don't ya dare wish for somethin' I wouldn't wish on most o'my enemies."

Ty's jaw drops. He slinks away and curls up on a chair. Logan drops to the floor, sitting cross-legged with the coffee table forming a barrier between them. After a moment, Logan grabs the checker board and sets up the pieces.

"Red 'r black?"

"I'm color blind, coach. I can't tell the difference."

"Tough break. How 'bout this?" Logan holds up a pack of Skip Bo cards.

Ty's grin is devious, "Prepare to get creamed."

This is too cute. I slow my task, not wanting to interrupt a potential bonding moment between teacher and a needy, lonely little boy.

Logan mentioned how he's uncomfortable, unskilled at relating kids but I think he's too hard on himself. Admittedly, I've seen few examples but from what I have, I'm impressed.

"Dr. Sue is a really nice lady," Ty chatters between discarding and drawing cards. "I like her a lot. I wish she was my Mom or something. Do you like her, Coach?"

Logan grins and ruffs the boys' hair. "Yeah, she's a nice lady."

"I wasn't sure I was going to like her better than Doctor Gray."

"How's that?" Logan asks, his smile fading.

"'Cuz Doctor Gray was a really tough science teacher. She flunked one of my projects. Doctor Sue's only my doctor. She can't flunk me."

Logan's smile returns as does a soft laugh.

Escaping time forces me to break in on the game, "Okay, Mister Tyler, Room two, if you please." I flash an appreciative smile at Logan, "Thanks."

A few minutes later, exam and x-ray complete, Tyler scoots to join his friends. I'm surprised Logan's stretched across the couch thumbing through a magazine.

He grins and asks, "All done?"

"I wish. What's up now?"

"Wanna go somewhere for dinner?"

"Thanks so much but for me it's fast food on the way to the hospital."

"What for?"

"I've got patients to check on."

"How 'bout when you're through?"

"I've been on call since midnight so when I'm through I'm going home to crash." Aw. Poor guy looks like I just crashed him. "Tomorrow evening, maybe?"

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck, "Ya sure don't make it easy, do ya darlin'. I got the watch t'morrow night."

I throw on my coat and turn off the lights, "Not on purpose, I promise. At least we've got the hockey game I promised next week."

"Yeah. Well, next week ain't Valentine's Day."

"Aw! That's sweet of you." Ushering him out of my office, I stand on tiptoes and peck a kiss on his cheek. "Honestly, February fourteenth is sort of bittersweet for me. I usually like to spend it working or alone."

"Okay. Ya gonna tell me why?"

My eyes peer straight ahead as we double time it along the brick walkway, "The date marks the birth of my daughter, Melissa and then three years later, her death."

Stopping dead in his tracks, he snags me by the elbow. Regarding me with an expression that both tugs at and soothes my heart, he murmurs, "Hooo. That's harsh. Sorry."

The gravel crunching under his boots grates on my nervesas he walks me to my car in silence. I don't need super senses to know he's uncomfortable, at loss for words. For now, that's the way it has to be because I'm not ready to share Melissa's memory with him. But, I'm grateful he's not trying to fill this unpleasant moment with empty platitudes.

Leaning against my car, I hear and feel no pressure as he suggests, "If ya feel like it, how 'bout Sunday?"

"It'll have to be lunch. I've got plans for supper."

"Can't talk ya into changin' 'em?"

"That would be rude."

"Damn it, woman!" He stretches his arms to the sky, "Ya need three weeks' notice 'r somethin'?"

If it weren't for the honest exasperation plastered all over him, I'd probably suggest he take a long walk off of a short pier.

"Oh, c'mon." I wiggle my index finger, "It's not that bad. You can't talk me into changing my plans but you can talk me into including you in them."

Thumbs hooked in his front pockets, he looks surprised as I explain, "From what I understand, it's an open potluck thing, so would you join me for supper at the Marquez's?"

A shrewd smile slides across his mouth and he laughs, "Nope. You're comin' with me Sunday night whether ya like it or not."

"Like heck."

"Nah, ah, ah." He chucks my chin, "I ain't lettin' ya turn down the best Tex-Mex chow this side o'the border."

I'm about to give him a severe tongue lashing when I notice he's pointing toward the Marquez's house.

"Huh!" I punch him on the arm. "Oh, you poop!" We both dissolve into stitches. "Pick me up at six."

"Count on me," he says. Then, with the sweetest and unexpected gesture, he kisses my palm and gently folds my fingers over. "That's for later." Leaning in, he lifts my chin, "This is for right now," and brushes his lips against mine.

XXX


	8. Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

A disco ball! Didn't they go out with the dinosaurs? Or was it polyester suits?

Balanced on the top rung of a ladder wiring the bugger in, I needle Scott, "You're not even old enough to remember these things, are ya?"

He laughs, "Something like that. But hey, wasn't it torches back in your day?"

Grunting and scratching my ass, I mimic a cave man.

Scott laughs, "There ya go. Next Halloween you're all set. Don't need to buy a thing."

"I'll keep it mind but thought I might hit ya up for that cute lil' tutu and tights. Still got 'em stashed away?"

Scott's expression is priceless. "What are you talking about?"

"The photo album in the library? Think it was Hank, you, Jean, couple others I don't know?"

"Sonovabitch!"

"You'd 've made a cute girl, Scooter."

"Thanks Logan, but um, you weren't my type."

"Ya got that right, bub. So c'mon. What's the story?"

Right hand raised, he says, "I plead the fifth."

"Chicken shit."

Tucking hands under pits, he squawks and laughs. "No comment over Jean in the prize fighter costume?"

"Not if I don't want ya to pull the ladder out from under me."

"Logan, you've got no faith."

"Got lots o'faith. Faith that you'd just love to see me splat my ass on the hard marble floor."

Grinning like a hyena, Scott gets busy untangling power cables near what will become the bandstand.

Harking back to an earlier era, this multi-purpose room was once a ballroom. Up to a year ago a trio of elaborate chandeliers hung from the twenty foot ceilings. Stryker's goons made scrap out of 'em and no compensation from the government or insurance can replace 'em. Charles was fairly broke up over the loss 'cuz I think they held more sentimental than dollar value.

A string of Russian curses breaks my concentration. "'S'up Tin Man?"

"My amplifiers. They do not work. They are broken."

"Helps if ya got juice comin' through the plug, eh."

Hands on hips, Pete stares at me. Suddenly the light bulb switches on and he busts out laughing."Da, da. You are right."

"Gimme another five, okay?" I'm referring to cutting the breaker back on after I'm done playing electrician.

With a thumbs up, Pete lights out for another load of audio equipment. Before I get the final screws set in the ceiling, Pete, Bobby and Vic haul in a big-ass sound mixing board. Sheesh! Take crap tunes from no-talents, mix it up with a rap beat. What these kids call music nowdays makes my head explode.

No how, no way am I getting' roped into testing the sound system. Dropping from the ladder, grab my jacket and scram the hell out.

Scott hollers, "Where're you off too?" as I duck through the door.

None of your business is the answer that always comes to mind when he's asking but I shrug. "Dunno yet but whatever it is ain't gonna be here."

"M'kay." From Scott's expression, I get the feeling he's not keen on chaperoning a high school dance either.

"C'mon with me."

"Oh, hell no! Trying to keep up with you is not worth the pain."

"I tried t'tell ya last time tequila shots were a bad idea."

"Funny, I don't recall."

"Really?" I laugh, remembering the scene.

Crazy, fun night 'til Mister Lightweight went all technicolor over the Jeep's leather seats and my jacket. "Know what ya need, Cyke?"

"What do I need?"

"Practice. Ya need to get out o'here, kick up yer heels more often. Build up tolerance."

He grimaces and shakes his head, "Pass."

"Yeah. Whatever. Later, okay."

"Hey, Logan," he calls as I sprint toward the exit. "Take it easy." He ruins it by slipping back into chief busybody administrator mode. "Don't forget you got the watch tomorrow. Six a.m. . . ,"

"Sharp, I know. Thanks mom!" My single finger salute conveys utmost respect as I slam the door.

xXx

Dukes Dead End. Gotta love a place with a name like that.

Like everything in District X, it is a dead end. Bars on the first and second floor windows make it a firetrap. Higher up, the windows're either busted out or boarded up. Rusted fire escapes probably couldn't support a rats' weight.

Bullet holes add ambience to decayed, stained and crumbling brick. Drive-by shootings are common as houseflies on a summer day around here and a dark brown stain on the pavement says one o'those flying bullets found its mark fairly recently.

There's the usual cast of street characters. Panhandlers trying to score enough for another fifth of rotgut or their next fix. All variety of hookers catering to every taste imaginable – some of it unfucking believable and downright sick. A few sad sacks lurking in the alley pick through the dumpsters for their next meal.

Inside, cracked, stained and dull marble floors, carved columns of the same stuff says this place used to be something. Once a schmansy hotel, later converted to tenements, now it's back to a _full_-service hotel, the kind ya rent by the hour.

The place is divvied up into sections. You pic your poison and bouncers stationed at each section pick your pockets.

Besides standard barroom games and booze, ya got yer oxygen and hooka parlors. Going deeper into this bung hole showcases even more fun and games. Sex I'll never be desperate enough to pay for and pocket-stripping gaming. Okay, rigged 'r not, I've been known to get roped into a bit o'that.

'Course it wouldn't be complete without the burnt sweet stink of weed and sinus searing crack and meth. Need more? Take a nice little trip on Anodyne* or risk a permanent vacation, six feet under on Toad Juice.

Down a hall, past the mens room, a knock on a side door and a fifty dollar cover charge gets ya into the gentlemen's lounge. Just what I want. Spend good money to watch some scuzz ball pretendin' to fuck herself on a pole. Another door caters to the ladies and a third door caters to . . . well, never mind. Good to know a rainbow of opportunities abound.

The basement is where hardcore goes down. Bare knuckle, no rule cage fights – my kind o'joy. Then, there's a sport, if ya can call it that, that turns my stomach: Dog and cock fights.

The cock fights don't bother me near as much. Stupid fuckin' birds. Greedy retard handlers.

But, how the hell can somebody take majestic, intelligent dogs, abuse the shit out of 'em so they become slavering killing machines and let 'em tear each other to bloody chunks?

Chuckling to myself over the irony, guess I'm like one o'them dogs. At least now I have a choice.

Dog fights are for cowards, fuckers who don't have the balls to go man-to man. I'm tempted to show 'em just how I really feel. Trouble with that is, I might wanna come back. Trashing the place is pretty much a guarantee the welcome mat won't be out next time. So, I keep my distance and mind my own goddamn business.

Intent on kicking off the night right, I elbow my way to the bar and order up: Two brews, two shots. Good start, nobody gives me any shit, the bottles are frosty and the shot glasses are clean.

A mix of young, old, male and female, the patrons act like any other bunch o'barflies except for one detail. Most of 'em are Mutant. Obvious Mutant.

Reminds me of the scene in Star Wars. What's his name going into an alien bar with the old guy. Like them, I appear more normal than most present company.

"Tryin' to get hammered quick, huh," says a skinny guy with orange skin who resembles a gecko.

I set down my second shot glass,"Tell me a better way t'start a Friday night."

He raises his bottle, "I hear ya."

Looking feline, complete with claws, fangs and thick, shaggy fur, the guy next to gecko adds, "Gotta get it b'fore they start waterin' it down."

I nod then drain beer number one.

Puss in cowboy boots moves closer, sniffs and states, "You're new 'round here."

"Yep, first time."

I feel like I'm being sized up for supper when he looks me up and down, "Smell like a Mutant but ya sure don't look like one."

Rolling and unrolling his lizard tongue, Gecko mutters, "Shut up," and elbows his buddy.

Setting my bottle down, I cross my arms and stare cat-face down. I'd pop the claws except his scent carries no malice, "And your point is?"

Not a bit fazed, he leans casually against the bar, "No point. Just curious is all."

I shut 'em both down asking, "Ya know what they say about cats 'n curiosity, eh?"

Bored with these two flakes, I pick up my beer and stake out fresh territory.

Abruptly the lights go up. The crowd hoots and applauses in anticipation as bright, multi-colored spotlights bathe a stage and runway that bisects the room. A badly maintained sound system rattles to the gyrating beat.

Nice. It's floor show time.

Four babes; not half bad, if you like the type, strut and bump and grind as they take turns on the runway. Fake hair, fake tits, body piercings in places that should never be pierced and shaved – er probably waxed pubes. I don't get that; never will.

Whistles and cat calls tell me I'm probably in the minority.

Aw geeze! I can't resist chuckling openly. The babes do their thing, twats in full view, but the law says they gotta cover nipples. Heart-shaped pasties! Shouldv'e figured. Had to slip that little Cupid fucker in somewhere.

"Nuff o'this shit. Taking the long way, that is a pit stop and a refill, I find my way to the pool tables. Thanks to the floor show, the wait for a table is miminal and the competition are the true sharks.

Five games later and my wallet significantly lighter than when I first got here, I concede to the local hustler. I know exactly how to put the weight back in the wallet.

Bullying my way down two levels leads me to the real contest. There're two bouncers, built like Mastiff's, to scare off the pussies, blacklist retards and buy off the occasional cop. Wait 'til they get a handle on me.

Mutt number one checks a sheet. I growl,"Ain't no fuckin' 'lister, bub."

"Ya look kinda wet behind the ears, boy," challenges the other dogface.

The dent my bare fist lays into to brick wall behind their heads proves otherwise.

I cross my arms and stare 'em down. Rin Tin Tin shakes his head. Lassie motions me past

Signing up is simple. I belly up to the bar, order a tall one and say, "Sign me up."

The barkeep, a balding, scrawny grizzled ol' coot, looks amused asking, "What you go by?"

I tell him.

"Sure ya are," he guffaws hearing my cage moniker. "What's yer mutation, pretty boy?"

"Wha'da you care, pops?"

"It'd be a shame if that pretty face o'yours gets smeared all over the floor."

I point toward the cage with my beer bottle, "Worry about the guy over there." I chug my beer, belch and wipe my mouth on my the back of my hand. "Feral," is my answer to his question.

He's too busy laughing and chiding my obvious stupidity to hear me say, "And healing factor." I fail to mention my metal bones but hey, he only asked about my mutation.

Every pit from here to hell is the same. The meaty sound of flesh smashing flesh, sweaty, tightly packed bodies, adrenalin, blood and pain; and the stink riles my animal side into an effing frenzy.

Spying an empty corner off to the side, I grab another beer from the bar and elbow my way between benches packed with drunks.

Ugh! Jesus Christ! No wonder it's vacant. Some bozo puked and left it. Plan B; opposite corner, suffer the crowd.

The cage is standard vinyl coated wire, worn and rusty in spots, stretched double thick over fluorescent lights embedded in the ceiling. Goddamn concrete floor's gonna hurt like a mother fucker.

The current champ's a tank. I'm no scrawny weakling but this guy looks like a steriod freak that swallowed a gorilla.

I sneer, watching this prize asshole lumber around the cage like a bull moose. He's slow, stupid, fights gutter dirty and the crowd eats it up.

Can't say much more for his opponent. Pulped mug and wobbling, Tank's beating the shit outta him.

Tank snaps a cheap and nasty kick to his opponents gut. He folds over like a rubber hose. Yanking him up by the hair, Tank thrusts two fingers into the poor slobs throat. He kisses the mat, gagging and gasping.

The crowd screams approval as Tank raises his arms in victory, strutting his stuff like a fucking peacock.

A squirrelly looking little prick sidles out of the crowd an tugs at my arm , "Hey you, put in or get out."

I cut him down with a face that'd crumble granite, "Git yer hands off."

He retreats, lipping off, "Save it for the cage, ya schmuck," and shoves an old timey wooden milk crate heaped with tens and twenties at me. Maybe a couple hundred bucks at most; for the size of the crowd and reputation of the place, it's pretty sad pickin's.

"Fuck off, I'm fightin'," is my reply.

Squirrelly warns, "This ain't no dub-ya, dub-ya, dub-ya exhibition like ya see on t.v."

I feign shock, "Oh no!" then wave him off. "Beat it, bub."

Squirrelly looks me up and down and shrugs, "Your funeral." Grinning, he points behind to the ring where Tank is still posturing for the crowd. Sounding like a piglet snorting a bucket of slop, squirrelly laughs and fades back into the crowd.

As a dude with green skin and purple dreadlocks drags Tank's victim, still cacking and spitting blood, off the floor, a voice booms over the loudspeaker, "Ladies and gents, I give you a new contender."

Boos ring throughout the building punctuated with a smattering of cat calls.

"Yes siree, that's right, fresh meat on the hoof."

The crowd roars in anticipation.

"Give it up for Canada's King o'the Cage, the Wolverine."

A fat slob sitting on a bench in front of me in a biker jacket so filthy you can't tell its original color, turns to a buddy, "Wolverine? What the fuck name izzat? Whoever he is, he's gonna be chopped liver." They laugh.

They don't have a clue and that's good. It'll make takin' their money that much more fun.

Chucking off my jacket and boots I poke Biker slob in the shoulder. Hard. "Hey asshole, watch this for me 'til I get back." I stare him down 'til he drops his eyes in surrender. "And they better be here when I get back. Got it?" Biker Slob nods a vigorous yes.

I swagger up to the cage, deliberately jostling elbows and shoulders as I pass through the crowds. Shouting, "Hey asshole," to Tank, "Ya know how to really fight or ya just kissin' ass?"

Quiet falls over the crowd as the Tank shades his eyes with his hand trying to make out the mouthy upstart - me.

"You talk big, little man," Tank taunts back.

I hear a couple sissy, sarcastic ooohs from the crowd.

"Ain't size, fuckface, it's what ya do with it."

Tank stomps across the ring, "Izzat so, twat?" Leaning too close, he sprays me with spit, "Git your runty ass in here and I'll show ya what to do with it."

The crowd laughs and applauds their champ.

Shrugging my t-shirt over my head, I step into the cage and grin, "Bring it, cupcake."

He does, charging just as the spring loaded cage door slams behind me. Sidestepping, I swivel on the balls of my feet and feint punches, "Impressive. Wanna go again?"

Second act, same as the first but this time I follow with a pivot and a jackhammer kick to his ass that sends him skidding chin first on the cement floor.

He rolls, roars and springs to his feet. His chin's a bloody skinned up mess.

My turn. I fire off a pair of left hand jabs aimed at Tank's shoulder and chest. He's all laughs 'til I nail him with a hard right fist in his gut.

Tank grunts as the air empties from his lungs. He staggers backwards, grabs his stomach and gasps.

The crowd reacts with, "Oooh,"

Quick to recover, Tank surprises me, aiming a kick to my groin. I'm faster. Snagging his leg in midair, I yank him forward and twist his leg. He flips, lands flat on his back flailing like cockroach.

I get in his face, "Ya don't even know how to fight, do ya asshole?" then back off, ready for payback.

Sure enough, his faced flushed crimson, he's stinks of vengance and rage. Roaring, with fists the size of canned hams aimed to smash by face, he rushes.

I ain't playing his game. Planting my left foot, I kick, arcing my right leg and end with my heel slamming the side of Tank's face. His jaw snaps with the impact and the crack reverberates through the ring.

The crowd groans.

Tank staggers back to the wire and grabs it to keep from dropping to the floor. Dazed, he faces me, grabbing at his face while blood trickles through his fingers.

The crowd's gone quiet. Guess they ain't used to seeing their champion getting his ass beat by and stranger who's yet to break a sweat.

I snarl at Tank, "We done yet? I want another beer."

Tank's answer is to launch himself off the mesh and hurl a sloppy wide punch at my face. Ducking, I rabbit punch him in the kidneys. Staggering back, he leans over and spits blood.

I offer free advice, "Quit now before they haul ya out on a stretcher," as Tank staggers back.

Roaring like a branded bull, Tank lunges, throwing another wild punch. I duck but this time it's me who gasps. The punch is a feint; the bastard pulls back and knees me in the nuts.

I see red as a sudden shock of agony spreads up from my testicles.

Furious at myself at being suckered, I stagger back a pace and drop to one knee. I'm thinking berserker, I wanna pop the hardware. Can't let that happen 'cuz if I do that fucker's head's gonna go bouncing across the floor Growling, tense arms crossed at chest level, I flex my fingers. Lock in down, bub, I self-counsel.

Wheezing and laughing, Tank closes in behind me. His beefy arm ringing my neck, I let him yank me up. Snapping my head back, bone is no match for metal, I mash his nose across his ugly face. Spurting blood, Tank reels back, screaming like a banshee.

Grinning, I turn to face him, "Game over," I decree. The asshole looks like he just crapped his pants.

My foot to the center of his chest knocks the wind out of him. Groaning, he falls backwards, bouncing off the chicken wire.

Swift and precise, I kick out at Tank's knee. The motion results in a satisfying pop. Howling, he crashing down on his one good knee. I finish the job, delivering a fist to the side of his head. I pull the punch just enough to keep from killing him.

Tanks head snaps back. His eyes roll up as his muscled bulk drops like a sack of shit.

The crowd is stone silent and still. Some of them open-mouth, they stink of shock and morbid fascination.

Glaring through the wire at the crowd, I growl, "Next."

xXx

Got time for half a smoke and a quick beer before _next_ makes his way to the cage. The crowds' cheers tell me it's another local but the overflowing bucket says the money's on me this time.

The announcers voice crackles over the sound system, "Are we gonna let some weasel from armpit Canada steal our money?"

Excuse me! Armpit, Canada maybe . . . and it's Wolverine, bub. Helluva difference.

The crowd roars, "No."

Fist in the air, the announcer works the crowd, "All righty, then," and aims an air punch at me. "Mister King o'The Cage get ready to eat your crown . . ."

Enough with the cheese already.

"Ladies and Gents, let's hear it for the Districts very own royalty . . ."

Fuckin' unbelievable!

Complete with an entourage, a trio of fugly biker babes, my opponent struts through the crowd. Duded up in a shiny purple and black jacket, and what the fuck's around his neck? A scarf? If it weren't for theflattened nose and cauliflower ears of a seasoned fighter I'd think this guy ought a be strutting his stuff in the fag lounge.

Stocky but no paunch, this guy's in shape. The shaved head and goatee's a fitting bad ass touch.

"Angel, The Hammer Fist, Guzman," the announcer finishes.

Screaming and stomping, the crowd pays proper homage.

Fugly number one helps him off with his jacket. Fugly two gets off massaging his shoulders. Fugly three just stands around looking fugly while Pretty Boy hams it up blowing kisses, throwing air punches and insulting my manhood in Spanish.

Cigar hanging from my lip, I'm cool rolling my neck and shoulders. I can't resist tossing back an insult, "Hey don Juan, you talk big when all you rate is a gang of ugly putas," in Spanish.

My wink says it all: That's right ya dumb shits. Yo hablo Español.

Three death glares are rightly earned and I grin back at the fuglies. One of 'em flips me off.

In your dreams, bitch.

Pretty Boy replies, "When I'm done with you, motherfucker, the putas will pay you to stay away." He says it so friendly like and if I didn't understand Spanish I'd think he was my best pal.

Crossing my arms, I chuckle, "Bring it, pendejo."

The referee counts, "One, two, three," slices downward with his hand, "Go!" and bolts out of the cage.

A vocal group in the stands stomps and chants, "Kill 'im, kill 'im." Doubtful they're on my side.

Fast and hard, Pretty Boy lays into me. His moves say training and experience.

I dodge and block a knife hand shoulder chop. Jackhammer fists land a triple treat to my shoulder, chest and a potentially debilitating knife hand to my neck, I flip him. He's lucky I don't wrench his arm from its socket.

I can barely pick out a few voices cheering, "Go Canada boy!" or "Hit 'em up Wolfman." What part of Wolverine don't they get?

I put space between us before Pretty boy's back on his feet. Feisty, stupid or both, he closes in again. I duck under a roundhouse kick and pivot to strike back. But he's too fast, faking me out with a shot upside my head .

I grunt as he fists hard contact with my liver.

Fuck! That hurts.

He knows it, too and cuts me a break. We do the dance. Circling. Feinting. Testing.

Short attention span, the crowd boo's, cat calling, "Fight. Fight. Fight." And worse.

Even with reflexes on par with mine, knowing where to strike; he don't know I can end this anytime I want. One full bore adamantium knuckle sandwich and his head'll bust like a ripe watermelon.

So, where's the fun in that?

Pretty Boy launches a high kick to the side of my head. I let it land. It smarts but hurts him more, if the gasp he swallows back is any clue. Flesh and bone versus flesh and metal? Game over.

It's his turn to yield the floor. We dance again. He's favoring his right heel and he don't smell quite so fearless.

"Wha'chu got in your head, gringo fucker?"

"Might be a fucker but I'm Canadian. Comprende?"

"Excu-use me!" He feints an upper cut to my chin.

"Meirda!" he yowls at my knife hand slice to his bicep.

"No excuses, dick cheese." Pressing fast and hard, my thumbs and fists are battering rams as I drive him into the wire.

Grunts, gasps and curses says I'm putting the hurt on him. But the scent of fresh adrenalin says he's still juiced.

"Gahhfuck!" He learns fast, scoring a helluva wallop to my outer thigh. Fire shoots up my leg as the muscles spasm and threaten to lock up.

Before my healing factor works out the kink in my thigh, he goes for another shot; elbow to my chest this time. Tightening my muscles prevents him from knocking the wind outta me when he lands a pair of jabs to my gut. Aiming for soft parts, he's set to inflict max pain. Damn if he ain't succeeding.

Screw this!

Seizing his his arm, I use his own momentum to wrench the arm and flip him onto the floor.

He rolls to a stand and shakes out his arm, "Chinga usted! Chinga tu madre!" Pissed off, he makes his first dumb move. He charges.

Fuck you too, bub! Dodging his take down and pivoting, my foot planted in his ass lands him sprawled on the floor.

It's half boo's and half laughs from the stands.

A little grand standing ain't beneath me. Fist raised, I strut and taunt, "Tu madre es una puta de cerdo." A nasty insult for me but he started it so I'm gonna jack with him 'til he blows.

Chin and elbows skinned and bloody, he pick himself up off the floor. If rage has a color, his deep purple face is it."You die for those words."

Yea-ahh, insult the mother. Works every time for Latino pricks. Flexing my pecs and biceps, my grin is predatory, "You're welcome to try."

He screws his face up. Raising his arms overhead, the veins writhe like snakes. Curling his hands into fists, flesh transforms into a pair of sledgehammers.

Holy shit!

Now's the time for that adamantium knuckle sandwich.

My fist collides head on with his fist. The thin flesh of my knuckles can't muffle the clang of metal on metal.

"Gah!" I drop my fist and stagger. Shock waves of agony vibrate the length of my metal bones. The crowd's collective gasp echoes my sentiments. This fuckin' hurts!

Defense my smartest choice, I pose my arms to block and retreat a few steps. Gotta re-evaluate. Fast.

Packin' adamantium, he ain't. Fuck all if I know what, though. Probably won't kill me but it's even money puttin' me in a bad hurt or a K O.

He advances, throwing bone crushing punches. My blocking him is an exercise in self-abuse. Every shot I block are lightning bolts shooting through my bones while blood spirals down my arms as the skin splits and heals.

Cuffed below the ribs, I gasp and fold into myself as blazing agony sears through my gut. Left side means he's done a number on my spleen.

"Gah!" An upper cut to my chin feels like French kissing a wrecking ball. Specks of light dart across my eyes as I spit blood and fall back against the cage.

"Kill 'im. Kill 'im. Kill 'im," rings in my ears.

Another potent wallop to my belly, right side this time, invites my liver to the party.

I'm down on one knee, trying not to puke, but Hammer Fist drives his knee into my nose. Forget it. My last beer mixes with the blood gushing over my mouth and chin. It forms a frothy red puddle on the concrete floor.

Might be in deep shit, here.

Hell bent for victory, Hammer Fist grabs me by the belt and hair. Impossibly, he raises me over his head. I feel myself sail across the cage. With a muted clang, my head slams intothe cement floor with enough force to scramble my brains. Stunned, I lie there watching the ceiling lights wink and turn hazy.

I am in deep shit.

The crowd counting "One, two," wavers.

Struggling to stand, the slow motion tilt-a whirl I seem to be stuck in makes it impossible. Hooking my fingers into the wire for balance and crouching is my only option.

Izzat two refs standing between me and twin Hammer Fists? I shake my head willing the doppelgangers gone.

"Three. Four," chants the crowd.

Bad idea. Think I'm gonna puke.

"Five. Six," sounds distant as darkness closes in and my spine goes as slack as my grip on the wire.

"Seven. Eight."

Can't win this 'un without claws.

"Nine. Ten," is a whisper to my ears.

In my mind I laugh, amused to finally meet my match.

The roar of the crowd buzzes in the distance before fading to absolute silence.

XXX

A/N I must give credit for my reference to Anodyne to notamos's story by the same title. Credit and thanks also go to my husband and best friend/beta, RhiannonUK. Reviews are strongly desired and taken seriously.


	9. Chapter 9

_Logan has just had the crap beaten out of him in a cage fight.__ Can it go from bad to worse or will his luck change?_**  
**

**CHAPTER NINE**

"Graaarrh!" By supreme will or miracle, the claws stay put as I spring to a sitting position.

Hammer Fist, strutting his stuff, jogging a victory lap around the ring means I ain't been out long.

Crouched beside me, the ref pleads, "Easy does it," and offers a wet, cold towel.

Towel? How 'bout a bucket? Healing factor or not, concussions happen. My head feels like the Hulk used it for a soccer ball and the urge to hurl can't be denied so, I kack into the towel. Lucky everybody, my stomach's mostly empty.

I spot purple dreadlocks hovering nearby, no doubt itching to add insult to injury dragging my ass out of the cage. I'll crawl first.

Threading my fingers through the wire . . . I'll be damned! Flesh once again, Hammer Fist reaches to give me a hand up, "Eres bueno, el hombre."

Clambering to my feet, it takes another minute for the room to quit revolving. "You're better," I credit once I sure I ain't about to puke again.

Headache receding to a dull nag but slower healing innards force me to cautiously pick my way through the crowd looking for the dirtball guarding my jacket and boots.

The announcer starts up, riling the crowd for the next victim. Angel, Hammer Fist, Guzman can have at 'im.

Me? I'm a stubborn s.o.b. but I ain't stupid. Gonna stoke the healing factor with a load of protein and soothe a bruised ego with liquid anesthetic . . . much good as it'll do me.

"Looks like yer crown done slipped 'round yer ass, eh Canada boy," taunts the jackass supposedly guarding my stuff.

"Jesus, Mary and Joseph!" he gasps as I offer an adamantium single claw salute. Funny, nobody messes with me on my way to the men's room.

Catching a glimpse of myself in the grimy bathroom mirror, it's no wonder the room emptied so quick. To say I resemble chopped liver's an understatement. Some fun, eh bub? A pair of swollen purple-black welts on my right and left sides hurt like a bitch, so maybe not so much fun.

Grabbing a couple wads of wet paper towels, I scrub off the blood – mine mostly. Another wad of cold ones feels mighty good pressed against the goose egg sized lump on the side of my head.

Dumb Canuck! Wanted a challenge, eh? Pacing, I keep up the self-flagellation 'til my healing factor and the cold compress shrink the knot on my head to pea size.

"Ooh-ooff!" My knees turn to jelly forcing me brace myself with one arm against the exposed plumbing. Feels like somebody's twisting barbed spikes into my back as I splash rusty red into the urinal. Effin' hate bruised kidneys.

Okay, back to the main bar I go. By the time I've climbed two flights of stairs to get there, I'm feeling back to normal – mostly. Holed up at a corner table with full view of the joint, I'm content to sit, drink and watch. The same crew of sharks still hogs the pool tables, so that's out of the question. Leaving an I O U is bad form and likely to earn me a knife in the back.

Nickel and dime darts fits the budget. Sweetening the pot is bodacious babe - in every sense of the word. Tall and exotically beautiful, her facial structure hints Asian. Pale blue skin and blue black waist length hair add irresistible intrigue. There's spunk behind cobalt, almond shaped eyes. Lithe as a panther, she's got the moves. And yeah, she throws a true dart.

I manage to score enough for a couple more brews to share and a hook up.

**xXx**

Admirable. That's what they are: Lissi's perfectly round ass cheeks swathed in what might as well be spray on leather pants. A cascade of silky, long hair accentuates the sway of full hips. Drawn like a magnet, my hand can't help not copping a lingering feel.

She turns, her eyes blazing with lust and grabs me by the collar, laying a hard kiss on my mouth. Murmuring, "Nice," she grinds herself against me.

I can't help but growl my pleasure as her movements kick up my need a couple more notches. "I'll show ya nice, darlin'."

All over each other like white on rice, we practically fall through the door to her apartment that she seems to magically unlock. Tongues scraping tonsils, I have her pinned against the wall as our shirts drop to the floor. I'm just about to slip her breasts from black lace when she breaks the kiss and pulls back.

What the hell? Riled, the animal in me won't be denied.

"Problem?" The man in me prevails.

She shakes her head and purrs, "Come to my playroom." Snatching hold of my hand, she leads me through her living room into a vestibule. Three doors represent north, east and west. She pushes me east.

Whoa! Strategically positioned mirrors, red satin sheets on a king sized matress on the floor; well, seen that sort of thing before. It's the ramp and swing that don't factor into the usual bedroom set up.

Pointing a thumb towards handcuffs, straps and paddles, I make it real clear, "Ain't into that shit, babe."

"I am," she says with a roguish wink.

She hops to the center of the mattress. On all fours, her breasts give new definition to cup runneth over. Glossy, indigo lips curve into an alluring smirk, "C'mere, big man."

What the hell. If the lady fancies a little kink, I know a few tricks that'll blow her mind. Up for the game, I'm a predator stalking my prey.

She reaches for remote control on the bedside table. Immediately, the lights turn moody and suggestive music crackles and hisses from crappy speakers.

I stop dead in my tracks, my senses don't hear as much as feel the whining of concealed audio-visual equipment. I scan the room searching for likely ports for the offensive buggers. Sure enough, I catch the tiny red dots of active camera's badly hidden.

Paranoia shoots into the red-zone as my libido plunges into the deep freeze. "What the fuck is this?"

She sasses, "What the fuck is what?"

I point.

She gives me a deer in the head lights look then throws her hands up. "Aw for cryin' out loud! How'd you know?"

"Don't matter. I just do." More pissed now than paranoid, I cross my arms and stare her down, "What's your game, woman?

Nervous, she licks her lips, "Fine. Whatever. Yeah, I make videos. Peddle 'em on the 'net. Girl's gotta make a living somehow. It's damn good money, ya know."

"Yeah, well lemme tell ya sweetheart, I ain't about to feature in any skin flick peep show."

She looks contrite but her scents says different. "Not even for a cut? I mean, a stud like you. Man, you'd go viral."

She's goddamn lucky I don't go viral all over her, trash the fucking joint. "Go ta fuckin' hell, bitch," I growl and make for my shirt and jacket in the other room. Shucking them on and_ o_ut the door before she gets out another word, I take the stairs three at a time.

Turning the corner, I hear her yell, "Shit head," as an icy wind slaps me hard in the face. I raise what little collar I've got to my jacket higher on my neck, zip up and shove my hands into the pockets. Damn! The fingers on my left hand poke out the bottom. Forgot the lining's torn.

Muttering to myself, this just ain't my night. Got fleeced at pool, hammered in the cage and punked by a nut job porn queen. What's next? I smack myself on the forehead. Shuddup ya dumbshit.

Cutting through a zigzag of back alley's earns me angry scowls from the local rat population. Fat bastards ain't scared of much. The haggard ol' drunk rummaging through a dumpster is. Though he'll probably use it on more booze 'r drugs, I palm off a pair of twenties hoping he might get himself a square meal and hole up in a shelter for the night.

A woman's screaming curses cuts through the late night urban din. I look up. Two stories up, silhouettes on cockeyed and broken window blinds, I pause to spy a man and woman struggle and spew colorful accusations of who's screwing who. She slaps him. He punches back. Domestic tranquility at its finest. Not.

Just about to clear the alley and make for my ride, I hear gunshots. From the sound of 'em, we ain't talking no cheap-ass cap pistol, either. The woman ain't cursing now. It sounds like she's pleading.

I do a good job convincing myself it ain't my problem, to keep moving until I hear another gunshot and shattering glass. The woman scream is silenced by two more shots and this time there's the unmistakable wailing of a kid, make that a couple kids.

Guns, out of control adults and kids; now, I'll make it my problem.

Dammit! Had to ask. What's next? Here we go again.

Backtracking, I notice the fastest route up is a fire escape. Its ladder stops short, about three meters over my head. I pop the claws and scale the brick wall then scramble up the ladder. Blood, pain, fear and the earthy, sickly stench of death waft through the broken window.

The scene inside's the stuff of nightmares. Blown away, what's left of the woman's face is splattered on the wall. Blood pools on floor where she lay. Beside her, two whimpering boys, maybe six and eight, huddle together. Blood streams from the shoulder of the older one. His arm hangs limp.

Spewing hate, the gunman aims his weapon back and forth between the kids and the body. It takes a special kind human to murder kids in cold blood. I don't think this bastard is one of those but I won't bet on it.

Positioned off to the side and out of sight, my boot takes out the remaining glass. Expected, a bullet whizzes through the opening, ricocheting off the cinderblock building across the alley.

Demanding, "Who's out there? Show y'self," I see the gunman's shadow move toward the opening. He's smart enough not to expose himself.

"Yer mama," I jibe. I wanna distract him, lure him, get him riled on me so I can get between him and the kids.

The shooters strained voice echoes in the alley, "Okay mama, I said show y'self."

"Not hardly, bub. Yer the one wavin' around the piece. How 'bout ya let the kids go?"

"What are you? Cop? Some goddamn social worker?"

"I'm no cop and how many social workers you know hang outside windows at two in the morning?"

"Just a fuckin' busy-body then."

Firing twice in the direction of my voice, it's close but not close enough. Chunks of brick pelt my jacket, stings the side of my face. It's all good, though. Can't confirm for certain he hasn't reloaded but his magazine only holds ten rounds. He's down to two or three.

Shit! Not so good, I hear him thrash the kids, "Did I tell you to move? Shut yer fuckin' faces?"

Whimpers become muted wails. The sickening thwack of flesh on flesh followed by thumps and more agonized cries tears me up, infuriates the animal.

His distraction is my chance. Hoisting myself though the window get's me just what I need; myself between him and the kids. It also gets me a gun aimed at my chest.

Done dickin' around, I challenge, "Ya wanna mess with them kids again, you're gonna hafta go through me first."

He sneers, "Your funeral."

My round house kick is fast but not faster than the bullet he squeezes off before his gun goes flying across the room. My chest explodes in white hot agony. The bullet's pierced between ribs, shredding a lung as it buries deep.

Reflexively I clutch at my wound. The metallic scent of my own blood, the feel of its sticky heat gushing down my chest, soaking into my shirt and spilling over my hand unleashes a surge of adrenalin and feral rage.

The urge to pop the claws and gut this s.o.b. is powerful but I don't wanna traumatize these kids any more than necessary. So, I focus on damaging him. Ignoring the pain that's burning through my chest, I charge and crush his gun hand with an adamantium vice, my fist, that is. There's a gratifying crunch as bones fracture.

A scream dies in his throat as I grab him round the neck, exerting pressure on his windpipe, "Whose funeral, bub?"

Scared to death, he whines as his bladder lets go, staining his tan trousers brown.

Grabbing a handful of stringy blonde hair, I slam his face into the kitchen counter top. The impact breaks his nose and teeth. Blood smears on cracked and yellowed Formica. Groaning, he goes limp and I toss him aside like the sack of shit that he is.

A pair of wide brown eyes stare at me from beneath the kitchen table. The one kids' face is hidden against the others chest. I crouch down slow but they flinch and whimper. The bigger boy, despite one useless arm, crabs himself and smaller one away.

I keep my voice soft, "I'm not gonna hurt ya."

They don't believe me and I guess I don't blame 'em.

Adrenalin ebbs and it's hard to ignore the pain in my chest or the effort it's takes me to breathe. Partly to calm the kids and partly because I got to, I sit cross legged on the floor.

It's a standoff. Nobody moves. Nobody utters a sound. Casually, I take in the ambiance. Cracked linoleum, water stained ceilings, peeling paint and scuttling roaches make a depressing impression. Despite it, the place seems clean, if the stinging scent of bleach is a hint. Tidy too, with what few possessions they have arranged just so.

I'm close enough to tell at least one of the boys is mutant. I'm also close enough to sense and see the older boy is still bleeding bad. Don't know is normal complexion but I don't think it's sickly pale as he is right now. He needs help and he needs it fast.

"I'm Logan. What're your names?"

After a long moment, the older boys voice trembles, "De-Shaun." He hugs the smaller boy, "My brother, he De-Marcus."

De-Marcus sneaks a peek but just as quickly hides his face again.

De-Shaun breaks another long silence, "You kill Michael?"

I glance over to the still breathing heap on the floor and shake my head. "Is he your dad?"

"Hell no!" De-Shaun scoffs.

Dunno why but it's a jolt hearing a kid cuss.

The little one surprises me. First by pushing back from his brother and second by signing, 'He my daddy.' Next, the little guy scans the room. His gaze falls upon the body of the dead woman. Tears fall as his hands furiously form, 'Is mama dead?'

I sign back, 'Yes.'

Now where the hell'd that come from?

"He hear ya," De-Shaun tells me. "Jus' ain't got no voice."

"Is that his mutation?"

The kid stares at me like I'm speaking gibberish then shakes his head. "Mama say he born dat way." From the way his voice is falling, I'd say I'm out of trust-bonding time. I gotta get him to a hospital 're something now.

"You boys have other family around? Big brother, sister? Grandparents?"

"Nope."

De-Marcus signs a name but De-Shaun shushes him, "He in jail."

So much for passing off responsibility. I bow my head, contemplating the inevitable."Well De-Shaun and De-Marcus, what say I get you guys checked out. Get that arm fixed up, eh?"

Again, they back away when I inch closer.

"We cain't go to no doctor. Free clinic done close an' da ones on the outside send us to juvie."

"I know somebody, a nice lady doctor. She helps people like . . . us."

"Where she at?"

"Ever hear of . . ." Hell, of course they haven't."She's a doctor at a school . . ."

Shitty timing, Michael groans and stirs. Reacting, the the boys clutch each other as the stink of abject panic fills the space. De-Shaun cries out as his brother apparently jostles his wounded arm.

Consequences be damned, I hold my arms out, "C'mon. I'll take care of ya." Why break an apparent lifetime pattern now?

They hesitate, probably weighing options. The older one's eyes dart between me and Michael, who's definitely returning to the here and now. It'd be nothing to bash him in the head but the boys have seen enough for one night.

Michael doesn't leave me a choice, though. Pushing up from the floor, his face is a mish mash of blood and mucous. Unsteady, he struggles to stand. Bellowing, "Kill you," he flings bloody spittle, then lunges for a knife on the nearby counter top.

He doesn't get within a foot of the blade. I pull a punch to his forehead dropping him flat on his back. It'll be hours before he wakes up with the mother of all headaches.

The action costs me. Gotta steady myself on something solid while the room quits rotating. Feels like a trip hammer where my heart's supposed to be. Every breath's like a knife through my chest. Coughing makes it worse.

"Hey mister, you okay?"

"Sure," I fib. "You guys ready to get outta here."

'Where we goin'?' the little one signs.

"Westchester," I tell 'em and realize a glitch in the plan. One motorcycle, two little kids and over an hour away from Xavier's says I got serious a transportation problem.

"Hey guys," he doesn't . . . ," I point to sleeping stupid, "have a car, eh?"

A shrug puts an end to that idea.

"Your mom, maybe?"

Same answer.

Damn.

Could jack something parked on the street. Don't want to because that means leaving my bike overnight. I yank out my cell phone.

"Logan?" Scott's voice registers shock.

"Yep, and before ya shit yer britches, the apocalypse hasn't started. But, I got two kids with me, one's been shot."

"Holy god! How bad?"

"Not life threatening, at the moment. The kid's young so, I'm thinkin' shock's going to be a problem real soon."

"Aren't you better off dialing nine, one, one?"

If there was a way to reach through the goddamn phone and strangle somebody! I snarl, "What the hell do you think?" and immediately hit the mute button so he can't hear me gasp for air.

"Okay, okay. Where are you?"

"In the city."

With a feeble sigh, De-Shaun's tenuous hold on his little brother and consciousness falters.

"That's a lot of territory. Want to narrow . . ."

"Cyke," I cut in, "This kid's outta time. Power up the jet."

"The jet? That's a helluva expense . . ."

I think, dock my fuckin' paycheck and cut him off, "Land at that big open area in Central Park. Know where I'm talkin' about?"

"The Great Lawn? Yeah. You sure the jet's really necessary."

"Got a better idea?"

I picture a clenched jaw, the pursed lips as Summers considers alternatives. Exhaling a low whistle, he yields, "ETA thirty minutes."

"Good enough," I hope. "It's possible you'll beat me there. It's about a five mile hike from my position."

"Just where the hell are you, Logan."

"I ain't sayin' and your best off not askin'."

He mutters, "Sonofabitch, then snarks, "I can't wait to hear this epic tale."

"Yeah, well later. Time's wastin', so move it."

"Roger that. I'll hover, cloaked. Ping when you're ready for pick up."

**xXx**

Takes me two hours to make my way back. Keying the remote raises the garage door. I glide into my spot, cut the engine and slump over the handlebars. After hiking while carrying one kid in my arms and piggy backing the other to the rendezvous I'm hurting bad from the bullet that's still stuck in my chest.

Goddamn! Every once in a while a bullet has to come out the hard way. Trapped by a metal ribcage, the offending bugger is gouging a bloody, destructive path through my lungs. Had to stop a couple 'r three times from the pain, catch my breath 'r hack up bloody phlegm.

Sue's car is tucked into its usual place. There's a silver BMW near it that I don't recognize. Pulling myself together, I stroll close to the Beamer, parsing its owners scent.

I freeze dead in my tracks. Ah shit!

Shit! The owner of the Beamer and her scent stimulates a serious fight or flight reflex.

Shit! Doctor Snarky, herself: Cecelia Reyes.

Put a cork in it, I counsel myself. My beef with her is water under the bridge.

Per usual, there's at least one kid in the kitchen, snarfing a late night snack. Tonight it's Marie, Jubilee and Kitty nibbling on chunks of cake. Leftovers from the Valentine's dance, I guess. Just smelling that sticky icing is enough to rot year teeth.

And per usual, for them, the hormones fly as they try to out flirt each other for my attention.

"Oh mash gosh!," Marie gasps and points at my chest. "Your bleeding."

"Ewe," choruses the other two.

"Past tense, kiddo. I'm good."

"What happened?" Marie pushes.

I shake my head, unwilling to waste time on details. "Everybody down below?"

They know what I'm asking and trip over themselves informing me what's what and who's where.

I give 'em thumbs up and break for the closest elevator.

**xXx**

"You're injured," Charles greets as I exit the metal cylinder.

I shrug. "How's the kid?"

"In surgery as we speak."

"Reyes workin' on him?"

"Yes."

"His arm's pretty . . . ," My voice falters as I fight an urge to cough, " . . . messed up. He gonna to be alright?"

"Everything possible is being done. Are you alright?"

Forget about me. I sigh and dry wash my face, "So that's a don't know?" Can't hid the fact that I'm wheezing like a busted chimney bellows.

"An optimistic don't know. You are not alright."

Ya think? "How 'bout the little one? Who's taken' care of him?"

"Storm."

I nod approval.

"Scott mentioned blood on your clothing. Why didn't you return with the jet?"

Let's see. Leave my bike anywhere near the District. Time, distance and aggravation involved fetching it. I summarize with, "Logistics."

Dubious, he crosses his arms and strokes his sparsely stubbled chin. Guess he didn't bother to shave when I sent out the o-dark-thirty red alert.

Steely blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he locks onto mine, "Indeed," he sympathizes after skimming the surface of my thoughts. 'After all this time, your trust is still tenuous?' is the question I hear inside my head.

I'm in no mood for head games. "Goes both ways, bub."

Ignoring my death glare, he keeps hammering, "What is the extent of your injury?"

"Aw, for fuck sake! Got shot and you know it. Now, will ya leave it alone."

"As you wish. Care to join Scott, Sue and me for a debriefing?"

Not really. Pushing the envelope with my healing factor, I need to disappear, crash and let my healing factor do its thing. "Can it wait?"

Crafty buzzard hauls me over a barrel, "It may wait if you'll consent to a medical examination?"

"You don't give up, do ya. Let's get this over with."

Out maneuvered and pissed about it, I ride a spike of adrenalin. Outpacing Charles wheelchair, I stride down the corridor toward the Situation Room. Not a wise choice.

The vice grip tightens and with it comes the sensation of elephants having stomped on my chest. I'm real pleased to actually take a seat at the table. That way, maybe I can hide the fact that I'm inches from keeling over.

Hah! I'm not fooling' anybody. Sue is in my space before the automatic door hisses shut. This is not the kind of up close and personal I have in mind with her.

"They warned me you're stubborn as a mule," she scolds and seats herself next to me. She smells of antiseptic, perspiration and deep fatigue. "Charles tells me GSW to the chest. May I take a look?" There's an unusual but not unattractive huskiness in her weary voice.

Tell the whole world, why don't ya, is my aimed thought to a certain big headed telepath.

To Sue it's, "Nothin' to see."

Just itching to lecture, Summers rolls his eyes. But from painful past experience he knows to stay the fuck out of my business.

Armed with a stethoscope, Sue is undeterred, "Fine. A listen then. Off with the jacket, please."

Shucking out of it isn't fun and I grunt my discomfort.

She consoles, "Sorry," and presses the stethoscope to my chest. All neutrality drains from her face as she moves the device over my upper body. "Do you feel like you can make to an exam room?"

"What for?"

"Chest x-ray. I can't hear anything through your clothes."

"What's it with docs wantin' to get my shirt off?" A coughing jag rudely aborts a chuckle at my own lame joke.

Summers snorts and mutters, "Prick."

Sue fixes Summers with a acid stare then flashes me a wink, "Because we don't get to examine a six pack like yours every day." A wry smile ghosts her lips but her eyes reflect the same alarmed scent she exudes.

"Right. Listen up, doc. I don't need ya ta listen or take a look. What I need is for ya to leave me alone for a couple hours."

"To do what?"

Dunno. Pick lint out of my navel. I throw my hands up, "Jesus Christ, woman! What do ya think? Maybe hack up the friggin' bullet and heal."

Wincing, she reaches for my hands but I resist for a moment, then give in.

She's preaching' to the choir explaining, "Expulsion of a projectile, especially if it's the same caliber as the one Cecelia removed from that little boy, is going to be horrendous."

"Done it before".

Her eyes turn to broad saucers but she recovers quick. "And how did that go? Listen, I understand your reluctance . . ."

"Bullshit. Only thing you gotta understand is the only way yer gettin' me in that med lab is laid out-cold on a stretcher."

Global warming's got nothing on her blistering expression.

"Gentlemen," she eyeballs Charles and Scott. "A few minutes of privacy with my patient, please."

Soon as the doors seal shut, Sue's swinging the baseball bat. "You're not just stubborn, you're being downright reckless and selfish. What happens if that thing in your chest clips an artery?"

"Then ya get lucky. I'll prob'ly be out cold and ready for the stretcher."

"I'm not even going to dignify that with an answer."

"Good. Then, we're done." I break for the exit.

She flies out of her chair, "Logan, please. I can't provide the best care for you and little De-Shaun if you're three levels up in your quarters."

Snarling, "I don't want anybodys care," falls flat. It's the coughing fit that leaves me gasping and gagging on a mouthful of bloody mucous.

Fast and without recrimination, she shoves a trash can in my face for me to spit out the foul gunk.

It ain't over. Coughing becomes retching, forcing me to my knees. She hangs tough providing an unexpected and welcome anchor.

She states the obvious, "You shouldn't go through this alone," as the paroxysm fades.

"Sue, I know . . ." My words flow in the halting manner of an asthmatic having just run a marathon.

"You mean well . . . But . . . there ain't a god . . .damn thing any . . . body can do."

I clear the pipes and spit again."Just about . . . anything you do'll only . . . fuck things up . . . make it tougher on me."

She looks like she's gonna cry, "I know. I know what your chart says. Cecelia filled in the blanks, told me about last year . . ."

I raise a hand to quiet her, "Then let it go. Please . . . Spend your time . . . and expertise on . . . the kid."

Pleading, "At least let me get an x-ray," she holds a chair steady while I try to sit upright. "That way we'll have a location and an idea of the potential complications we're facing."

I'm hunched over the table, "Won't see much with metal ribs, ya know."

"Alright, an ultrasound. It's better than nothing."

"Okay fine. You win. But just pictures. You start in with anything else, I'm gone."

"You'd benefit from a little oxygen, don't ya think?"

"Don't push it."

"Okay, okay. You're in charge."

And if I believe that, then next I'll be buying the Brooklyn Bridge. Yeah, well she's got a point that I ain't about to concede. "Damn straight, doc. One more thing . . ."

"Yes?"

"Nobody else gets near me."

"Huh? Oh….what? Oohhh right."

Guess Reyes filled Sue in on all the dirty details of our last encounter.

"Even Electra?" she adds after a pause.

I shake my head to the negative, but forfeit, "Yeah . . . maybe."

**XXX**

**_A/N. This has been a difficult chapter to write. It just wouldn't flow. Rather than put it aside, wait for inspriation and keep my readers waiting, I plowed ahead. I'll be the first to criticize saying this isn't my sharpest piece of writing. But, it is what it is and I hope you derive some enjoyment. Please send me your comments/reviews._**


	10. Chapter 10

_In the previous chapter, Logan suffers a gun shot wound to the chest while rescuing two small boys. Sue is working to gain his trust so that she can try to ease his symptoms and pain. We join them in the med lab as she examines him._

**CHAPTER TEN **

Snatching my hand, his grip threatens bruising on my wrist. "What the hell ya doin'?"

If I could morph into a Gorgon I would. "Let me go this instant and I'll explain."

Smart man, he hears, sees and heeds even if he looks meaner than a junk yard dog.

We stare each other down for a few seconds before he mutters, "Sorry."

I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. "It's called chest percussion-"

Cutting me off, his tone is snide, "Really?"

I've had it with your jerk-off attitude. "Logan, would you like to learn how I handle unmanageable patients?"

It's another stare-down, before he cracks the slightest crooked smirk, "Play bongos on their chest, obviously."

Oh, ha ha. I bite my lip to keep from grinning. Feeling as though the emotional rubber band isn't stretched quite so tightly, I quip, "No, but it sounds like something to try. Seriously though, I'm trying to hear what's going on inside your lungs."

"Ain't that what the wha'chacallit, stethoscope does?"

"Yes, within limits."

"What about just takin' a picture, like ya promised?"

"That's going to happen. I'm just trying to decide whether I want a full chest series. Believe me or not, I am trying to keep this as simple as possible."

He nods and I continue flicking my middle finger down a vertical line on his chest.

"So what do ya do?"

"Huh? Lean forward." I repeat the percussion technique on his back.

"Handle rotten patients?"

"Oh, well, I find the biggest bore needle I can, load it up with an oil-based sedative and stab the recalcitrant in his gluteus maximus."

He mutters, "Ouch."

Finished with percussion I suggest, "Settle back.

"We done?"

"Picture time and I want to do a full series, okay?"

"What the fuck's a full series?"

"X-rays and a CT scan."

"What's a see-tee scan?"

"Same thing as Doctor Gray did a while back."

"Oh yeah, that body scan." He sighs and drags his hand through his hair. "Whatever."

I hunt through a cabinet, "Here you go," then present him with a short, flimsy cotton gown.

"Forget that."

"Logan, it's going to be hard enough getting a readable scan with the metal on your bones. I don't want to deal with jean rivets, too."

"Okay. Boxers 'r naked. You pick."

Oy! Don't tempt me, Mister Studly. I close my eyes and shake my head. "Do your boxers have any metal snaps?"

I don't believe it! He unzips his jeans and actually checks his underwear.

"Well, look-ee here, doc." He points to the buttons on the fly of his undershorts, "Looks like metal to me."

He's being an ass on purpose.

Okay, it's killing me not to gawk, let alone react or comment. The guy is clearly packing a howitzer in his shorts. But, dog-gone it, there's such a thing as professional ethics.

Tracking my eyes anywhere but on his crotch and offering the gown once more, I suggest, "It's kinda chilly in radiology and, oh, by the way, that fiberglass table is mighty cold on the backside."

Please, please don't call my bluff.

"Call me a little slow sometimes but you're scanning my chest, right?"

"Yes."

"So, what's metal snaps below my waist hav'ta do with scanning above my waist?"

Well, knock me over with a feather! "Not a darn thing. You're absolutely correct."

xXx

"Fuck off! I said pictures and that's it! Nobody's stickin' a needle in my hide. Never again."

Might not be able to suck air but a jolt of pure adrenalin gets the job done. I'm off the bed and on my way out of the med lab.

From her reaction, I know Sue doesn't like what she sees on my x-rays. Hell, I don't have to see them to know I won't like it either. Fucking scan she tried was a total bust. My healing factor knocked out the dye soon as it hit my blood stream. Probably could've told her that would happen.

Did it stop there? Oh, hell no.

"Logan, please consider it."

"Sure, stick a tube in me. That'll help. Know what happened the last time somebody stuck a tube in me?"

I'd don't give her a chance to answer. "I died."

"What?"

"Go ask Reyes. She can give ya all the gory details."

"Oh, that. If your chart is correct, you suffered an adverse reaction from a transfusion."

"Adverse reaction? My fuckin' heart stopped!"

"A needle thoracentesis isn't the same thing. I'll be taking blood out-"

"Shut up!" Sliding into full feral battle mode, I barely control myself from grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her like a rag doll.

The sour stink of her fear reins me back. Gesturing retreat, I drop my hands to my sides but the venom in my voice remains. "I don't give a flyin' fuck what it is. I ain't havin' it."

The fear's still there even as her eyes go hard, her voice cold and exact, "You have man-handled me for the last time. Therefore, I release you from my care."

It's my turn for a deer in the headlights expression. Never figured she'd roll over this quick. Maybe she hasn't because she's glaring at me with her arms crossed and she stinks of big time pissed off. Yeah, well me too, doc. "Good. I'm outta here."

She snorts as I slam the elevator button hard enough to crack the plastic.

I glare at her over my shoulder, "You got somethin' else to say?" as I step into the elevator.

Just like that, she flips one eighty with her attitude and I have to lean toward her to hear, "Do you want me to call you when Deshaun wakes up?"

Bulls' eye! Clean shot to my soft spot for kids. "Uh, yeah."

She nods and turns on her heel. Just before she ducks into the kids' room, I call out, "Hey, if something gets really bad, I'll call for help. Okay?"

I see her shoulders lift and sag. Slowly, she turns to face me. "I'm sorry," she says but her expression is anything but. "You're released. You'll have to call another provider."

And then she's gone.

What the fuck?

I smack the button on the inside of the elevator and bust that one.

Bitch.

Fine!

Don't need ya.

Takes me all of a minute and a half to make it to my quarters. The animal's back in the cage but I'm still cussing as I fall face first across the bed.

Damn fucking fool. You had no business roughing her up.

Damn do-gooder docs. Leave me the fuck alone.

Released, eh? Probably means I'll be looking for another fuck buddy too.

Rolling onto my back, I heave a deep breath. Big mistake. Feels like a barbed lance in my chest, even worse than the normal burn of my healing factor. Sitting up, I curl into myself and take short sips of air.

Stretching out flat on my back is out. Feels like an elephant sitting on my chest.

Maybe I ought to . . .

Nah.

I scrunch up a pair of sad and abused pillows to form a wedge and prop myself on them. Yeah, better but not great. Now, instead of an elephant, it only feels like a hippo.

Is this hunk of lead in my lung fragmented? Whatever the deal is, it isn't coming out the easy way.

Okay, maybe I was a little hasty turning down the oxygen.

Damn, I'm cold. Burying myself in the comforter does sweet fuck all for the raging fever. Too stubborn or stupid to back down, I throw an arm over my eyes and fall into that black hole of my healing factor.

xXx

I slump into a chair beside the charting station complaining, "Definitely not one of my finer moments," to Cecelia Reyes and Electra Marquez.

"Don't be so hard on yourself," Cecelia counsels. "You locked horns with Wolverine and won."

"More like quit."

"You handled it just right," adds Electra. "Trust me, when I thought he was going to grab you I was about thirty seconds away from coming out there and zapping him. I've never seen him turn on one of us like that."

Cecelia gushes, "Ooh ladies! Lucky you missed last years' drama. Take his chart alerts seriously."

"For the record, he didn't touch me. But yep Ceece, you're right. That's what I get for blurring the line between professional and personal."

Cecelia stares at me like I've lost my marbles while Electra tuts, "That's no excuse, for Logan, that is."

What's done is done. I wave them both off. "Question is, how do I fix it?"

"You don't," is their unanimous reply.

"But no one will fault you if you consult Charles," suggests Electra.

Huh? I pose the question with my expression.

"Telepath," Electra reminds me.

I twist my mouth, chewing on my inner cheek, internally debating the value of such a gross violation of Logan's privacy. "Kind of under handed, not to mention flagrant HIPAA violation, don't you think?"

Cecelia explains, "No. It's a fair use of available," she makes quotations marks with her fingers, "technology. Think of Charles as an organic monitoring system."

"And Logan's no dummy. If he's so adamant, he'll block him," adds Electra.

"He can do that?"

"Si, to a point. But if Charles really sets his mind to it, no pun intended, no one on the planet, even Logan, stands a chance."

"Hmm. Nice to know. I think."

Cecelia says, "Don't mean to pry but what's with personal side of the equation?"

I'm quick to answer, "As of this moment, not a gosh-darn thing," and think to myself, because it's hard to ignore that he's a stick of dynamite that will explode in my face on both a personal and professional level

"You know what?" I press my fingers together to crack my knuckles. "Logan is a big boy. He refused care and left my clinic A.M.A. I informed him his choice left me no option but release him to another provider. Let the consequences fall where they may."

My decision seems to rate a consensus. With that decision made, we three tend to saving little Deshaun's arm, by no means a certainty yet.

xXx

Around six a.m. I cave in and check on Logan. Deshaun emerging from anesthesia and asking for food gave me an excuse.

He doesn't answer his cell but honestly I don't know if he even has it turned on or charged and his land line goes straight to voice mail. Great! I get to disturb Electra to ask where Logan's room is.

Right second floor hallway, fourth door on the left, I stand here like an idiot. Yes, I'm worried that he hasn't answered his phone but I'm also moderately chicken to knock. And then there's the whole issue with my pride.

Gently, I tap the rhythm _shave and a haircut._

I hear rustling on the other side of the door, then a gravely sounding, "Wha'cha want?"

"Um, it's me. Doctor Sue."

"I know."

You do? Oh yeah, you probably do.

"I promised to let you know when Deshaun woke up." I can't resist adding, "How are you doing?"

I hear more movement, dry, hacking coughing and a string of groaning curses.

"Not so good," I answer for him just as the door cracks open.

"Not dead yet," he quips and pushes the door wide open.

"So I see." I don't accept his gesture to enter.

He does look okay and I don't just mean this naked from the waist up, broad shouldered, perfect specimen of masculinity. His color's back to normal. Vanished is any trace of the chest wound. But, slightly hunched forward, guarding his chest says he's still in significant pain.

"How's the kid doin'?"

"Why don't you see for yourself?" No need to verbalize my ulterior motive. Namely, better assessment of your condition.

I notice a stifled gasp as he bends down to retrieve a shirt from the floor. While he's dressing I can't help also noticing how Spartan his living space is.

From what I can see just standing at the door, his taste seems to lean toward a modern Asian influence – I think. In front of a window is a knee high rectangular table. Centered on the floor in front the table is a dark green cushion. On top of the table is a container of skinny paintbrushes and is that a bottle of ink? Is that calligraphy stuff? He does calligraphy!

"Hey, about earlier tonight, ya know I didn't mean nuthin'."

Thinking hate to see you when you mean something, I say nothing.

He's got quite an impressive collection of swords and knives mounted above the mantle and on the wall at the head of his platform bed. From the gleaming blades, he takes good care of them. Another notable is a large bookcase packed to bursting and twin stacks of books on either side of a tattered lounger chair on the other side of the fireplace.

Finishing up the last button on his flannel shirt, he expounds, "It's just that when I'm in threatening situation or when I'm in pain I get a little crazy."

A little crazy? Ooh, let me tell you a thing or two. Holding back, I shake my head. "Now isn't the time for this discussion."

He shrugs. "Can I at least say I'm sorry?"

"Yes you may."

Perhaps expecting I'd back down, he snorts and walks past me. Proceeding in single file to the med lab, the conversation stays confined to Deshaun's condition.

xXx

It doesn't take a trained professional to notice the exertion of visiting with Deshaun takes a toll on Logan. Grabbing his attention, "Hey there," as he shuffles toward the elevator I give him another chance. "You're not completely healed are you?"

He raises his hands to the ceiling but there's no oomph in his voice. "You don't quit do ya? I'm fine."

Liar.

Dammit. The stick didn't work last time. Let's try a carrot. "What if I told you that I think I can speed up your recovery with something as simple as a chair, a table and a pillow?"

High pressure oxygen, too but I'll let that slide for the moment.

From arms crossed over his chest and the single arched eyebrow, I can't decide whether he's curious or thinks I'm full of b.s.

"Right," he drawls skeptically.

He thinks I'm full of b.s.

"Chair, table, pillow, eh?" He raises three fingers illustrating each point. "If I try this kooky thing o'yers, will ya shut up and go away."

"Absolutely." I cross my fingers behind my back.

He tries to release a sigh but a fit of coughing doubles him over. Flushed bluish in the face, he wheezes, "Lead on."

xxx

"Thought you said a chair?" he complains as I pat the bed for him to sit.

"I didn't take account for your height. Trust me, okay."

Shaking his head, he settles on the edge of the mattress.

"Aw, what the fuck?" he whines when I squeeze his finger between the pulse oximeter clips.

"Just wanna see how you're actually progressing from a few hours ago."

He grumbles, "I'm fine."

Gesturing, I ask, "Lift up your shirt, please."

"Only if you lift up yours."

I feel fire gather in my cheeks and how I wish I had a mutation to roast him with it. "I'm trying very hard to convince myself that you have a quirky sense of humor. But in case you haven't noticed, I'm not laughing."

He casts his eyes to the floor. "Over the top, eh?"

"No, more like down the sewer." Done with this string of conversation I keep quiet, simply listening through the stethoscope.

"Nice. Sounds better," I report.

"Could've told ya that."

"Uh huh. Though without pictures, I can't prove or disprove."

"Yeah well, I had a collapsed lung before and it takes a frikin' long while, even for me, to get over."

"C'mon, scoot yourself squarely." I set a tray table in front of him. "What I'm going to have you do absolutely can't hurt and I'm hopeful it's going give your healing factor a boost."

Next, I grab the pillow from the head of the bed and place it on top of the table. All the while, he wears an amused smirk.

"Lean forward, just like earlier when I played bongos on your back."

"Fuck. Not that again."

I retrieve a tank and oxygen mask from the cabinet. "Nope. Put this on, please and cinch the straps tightly."

I stop dead in my tracks as his eyes narrow and he snarls, "Go ta hell."

"It's only high pressure oxygen."

"Maybe so, but ya ain't strapping that mask on my face."

"May I ask why not?"

"Ya just ain't." He's got that fight or flight look about him, the same I saw at the restaurant when the waiter startled us both dropping a tray.

"If we don't cinch it tight and you simply hold it yourself, would that work?"

Staring past me, he takes a long moment to finally nod.

I hand over the mask, "Hold it tightly over your nose and mouth. Try breathing as normally as you can. If it starts to feel uncomfortable, give yourself a break."

He coughs as the oxygen flows. "Stinks," he complains. "Makes me wanna barf."

Has to be psychosomatic but just in case, I stick a basin lined with a towel on the bed next to him. "Take a break if you feel nauseated."

He shakes his head and guts it out, moving the mask aside a few times to cough. Resisting the potential counter-productive urge to hover, I get busy elsewhere, though not too far elsewhere.

Reading his chart does no justice compared to observing how quickly his healing factor responds. I'm amazed that it's only minutes before his pulse ox level rises to his normal baseline. Gone are the grunts, wheezes and retractions with every breath.

"I'm going to leave you alone for a few minutes. Time for me to check on Deshaun."

He mumbles, "How much longer I gotta do this?" from under the mask.

"Well, how do you feel? Is the chest pain gone? Do you feel like you're breathing normally?"

"Think so." Dropping the mask, he breathes unaided. "Yeah."

I study the monitors. "Vitals are good. Hang around 'til I get back. I'll take a listen and then probably boot you out of here."

For the first time in half a day he cracks a half grin. "Okay."

Just as I exit I hear, "Thanks, Sue."

xXx

Half an hour later I return to find Logan flat on his back, dead asleep. He doesn't move a muscle as I slip the pulse oximeter over a fingertip. The thing shows normal readings, so I take it away. Carefully, I warm my stethoscope and take a brief listen. Fantastic, all clear sounding. And he's still out cold. This must be that healing coma mentioned in his chart.

I start to pull the blanket over him then have a brainstorm. I dim the lights and make a quick trip to his room.

Two minutes later, I tuck him in with the blanket from his bed. My theory is his own scent will offset the scents of the med lab at least a little bit, I hope.

Feeling like things are under control for the first time in hours, I stretch and yawn. "I'm fried to a crispy critter," I say to myself. Oh my gosh! It's half past six in the morning. And I thought keeping clinic at a private school would get me out of some of those all-nighters.

Well, no point in going home now. I'll just have to round on Deshaun in a few hours. Since Charles is keeping a telepathic tether on the child, at least I can grab a little sleep here. Taking the elevator that deposits me directly to my clinic, I draw all the draperies and lock the door. Gathering up a few pillows and a blanket from the exam rooms, I snuggle into the sofa in the waiting area.

The next thing I know, a beam of sunlight from between the drapery zaps me in the eye and I bury my face in a pillow. It's the demanding knock at the door that rouses me as effectively as a drill sergeant might on the first day of basic training.

Here we go again.

XXX

_A/N Traffic on all of my stories is down drastically. I'm certain the time between posting has an effect. But for those of you reading my chapters it would be very much appreciated if you'd comment. Is what I'm writing boring? There's no way I'm that good that no one has something to point out. C'mon people, without feedback the temptation to suspend this story may get the better of me._

_Disclaimer time again: Marvel-make that Disney, owns the X-Men. I'm not posting this for financial gain._


	11. Chapter 11

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Smothered in a cocoon of humidity, rank and worn fatigues stick like cellophane tape. Sweat trickles down my brow, stings my eyes. Can't wipe it away, my hands are bound behind my back. Shackled to a crude post, splinters pierce my flesh.

"Ready." A half dozen soldiers shoulder their rifles.

"Aim." Six steel barrels train on my torso.

"Fire."

Enraged and defiant my roar dies as an explosion of lead riddle flesh, shred muscle, shatter sternum and ribs. My body jerks as macerated innards spew as hot crimson gout exiting through my back.

"Graahh!" Bolting upright I vent my terror. Instinctively, I scan my surroundings. Shelves instead of soldiers, gadgets instead of guns, flannel shirt instead of jungle fatigues.

What the fuck, the blanket from my quarters? I huff, "Just a dream," and make sure the claws are housed before raking my fingers through sweat matted hair. Still, the caustic funk of the med lab keeps me on edge.

Aw shit, I got company. "What the fuck you lookin' at?"

"Well, buenos dias to you too." Hands on her hips, Electra gives me the stink eye. "I heard you holler-"

"Uh yeah, nightmare. Sorry for bitchin' ya out."

Her tight lipped expression says I'm not quite forgiven. Stethoscope ready, she rubs in against her sleeve. "How are you feeling?"

"Good enough so I don't need that thing."

There go the hands on her hips again. She stares me down for a second or two before tossing her hands in the air and ripping me a new one in Spanish - something about my shitty attitude and running rough over folks who just want to help me. Then, she spins on her heels and leaves me in a wake of caustic indignation.

Does this mean Sunday dinner's off?

Damn! The digital clock on the monitor says it's quarter past ten which means I'm four hours overdue for taking over watch. A rumbling in my belly says it's going to be a little longer before I take over. Got to scrounge up a load of protein to recharge my healing factor.

I swing my legs off the bed and catch a whiff of myself. Yeah, worked up a sweat healing, so a shower and change of clothes is another priority.

I poke my head in the security-communications room. Nobody's there but that's not a shock, this being a Saturday. The kitchen's busier with my favorite triple trouble, Rogue, Jubilee and Kitty up to their elbows in soapy water, pots, pans and dishes.

I creep up on them, "'Morning, ladies," and bust a gut laughing as they cuss me out for scaring them.

"What with the k.p.?"

Whirling a towel over head, Jubes cracks her gum. "Mister Summers is such a freakin' control freak. I mean, we just mixed a little vodka in the punch."

Antics like this I expect from her. But Kitty and Marie- well maybe Marie.

Marie catches my raised eyebrow and defends, "Don't look at me. I told her it was a bad idea."

Kitty says, "Me too."

"You spiked all the punch?"

Jubes answers, "Hell no. We're not stupid."

My stink eye tells her different. Then I shrug. "Guess you're gettin' off lucky with a little kitchen duty, eh?"

"Oh sure." It's Kitty again. "We're stuck on this for all of next week. Anything that can't go in the dishwashers we get to scrub."

"Beats scrubbin' latrines."

Takes them a minute to decode then the ews and nods are animated and unanimous.

Marie changes the subject. "Hey, we heard you rescued a couple little kids from the district. Heard you got shot, too."

"Yep and yep."

And speaking of little kids, Storm and Kurt wander into the kitchen with Demarcus holding tight to both their hands.

"Just the man we want to see," Storm declares. She ruffs the kids' fuzzy hair. "He's been signing like crazy for you."

"Oh yeah," I say and sign. On bent knee I sign and say_, "What's happening, little man?"_

He grins, signs too fast for me to get it all, but it's good, then grabs me around the neck.

Seriously! I melt and wrap him in a hug. The kitchen patrol ladies don't say a word but the scent of their shock seeing me cuddle a kid is palpable.

In his thick accent Kurt says, "We have just been to see Deshaun. Doctor Reyes says he will be released from the med lab later today."

"You and Storm gonna take care of 'em?"

In German, Kurt explains, "Until the professor can locate next of kin."

Storm adds, "If," and leaves it at that.

Marie, Jubilation and Kitty take my scram gesture to heart and do just that.

As we're talking, mostly in German, the kid contents himself climbing onto my back. "What's the plan-" I gasp as Demarcus' foot or knee digs into the middle of my back. What the hell?

Storm beams a maternal eye at me. "Are you okay?"

"Uh yeah." The pain was sharp for a second but it's gone now. "What's the plan for an _if_ scenario?"

Their answer gets half my attention because Demarcus hits that sore spot again. Lowering him to the floor I lose the thread trying to figure out what my problem is. Kind of remembering a possibility, I don't like it.

Kurt stations himself and the kid at the breakfast bar while Storm and I jockey for position at the stove. She wins and I end up ferrying a carton of eggs and blueberry waffles from the fridge.

Storm levels, "Nope, not cooking that," when I slip a hunk of leftover steak onto the counter.

"Aw, c'mon. Injured man tryin' to recover here, ya know."

Being a vegetarian, she's not buying it.

"Okay, okay." I pull a separate fry pan from the rack above the stove. "Do me three eggs, easy over. I'll handle this."

I tease her by stabbing the meat and making the sound of a dying cow.

She shakes her head, pops a pair of waffles in the toaster while musing in her native tongue. "I'm just worried that the Morlocks might want the boys back regardless of kinship."

The kid's keeping Kurt busy teaching signs for everything in sight. Or is it the other way around? Doesn't matter as long as the kid doesn't feel left out.

I repeat in German what she said for Kurt's benefit and add, "Yeah, I don't see Charles wantin' to tangle with Callisto and her bunch o'goons," is my take, spoken in Arabic then in German, on Storms' concern.

Her words are passive but the glow in her eyes, the edge to her voice say different. "Should it come to that, I trust the professor to negotiate the best outcome."

When Storm's not looking Kurt shakes his head. His yellow eyes crease with the same worry I parse from his scent. Bottom line, Morlocks are clannish to extremes and nobody, Charles included, has had much success dealing with 'em. Storm risks a broken heart getting too attached to the boys.

Grub ready, conversation quits except for Storm warning the kid to slow down so he doesn't choke. Considering his circumstances I guess he's not seen a breakfast like this very often, if ever.

The pit in my belly filled, I dump the dishes in the sink. "Thanks for the eggs, darlin'."

"You're welcome."

I sign, see you later, to Demarcus.

Where are you going, he signs back?

I tell and sign, "To take a shower and go to work."

I say to Storm and Kurt, "Speakin' o'work, who got stuck with fillin' in the watch?"

Kurt flashes his yellow pointy teeth. "We did."

"Damn. Okay. Gimme fifteen and I'll take over."

"Nicht, mein freund. Do not worry. We will trade another time."

"Ya sure? Danke."

xXx

Standing under the shower, I forgot all about that sore spot Demarcus found with his knee. Scrubbing my back with the loofah brings back the memory.

"Ouch. Dammit." I really don't want to deal with this. When's the last time a bullet got stuck? Quite a while back and digging it out of my hip was just jolly.

I rinse and dry off. With my back to the steamed mirror, I can't see anything obvious so I'm not keen on digging blind even if I do heal fast. I think about leaving it but a couple stretches and twists nixes that idea. The third option is just a painful on an entirely different level.

I pop a single claw and chastise myself. "Fuckin' chicken shit." It's the truth. I'll take a stab in the back over a mauled ego any day.

Attacking from over the shoulder results in a bloody gash just millimeters from where I think it needs to be. The angle's all wrong stretching around my torso so I don't even try.

I growl, let loose with a string of curses and growl again. Time to suck it up and go with option three and the ego whopping that comes with it.

Back into the shower, I rinse away the blood then dry off and pull on some clean shorts and jeans. Shirt's coming off sooner or later so I just drape it over one shoulder. Lucky me, the halls are empty so nobody messes with me as I make my way to the twin doors.

And here I stand with my fist balled ready to knock. C'mon, you can do this. She proved herself. No reason not to trust her now. Wha'cha scared of? Think you're going to tarnish that hard ass reputation? Afraid she might refuse you? Pick one.

Screw it. My pounding rattles the door hinges.

Takes a few seconds before I hear, "Just a minute." There's a rustling and she clears her throat. "Be right there."

"Oh, it's you." Her voice and her scent are thick with sleepy. Mussed hair and puffy, red eyes match her fatigue but she looks good to me.

Tired turns to surprise as her brows arch under a tangle of bangs and her eyes trail a lingering path from my face to the waistband of my jeans.

Her interest isn't lost on me but I can't muster a retort, lame or otherwise. I just want to get this over with.

Lips quirked in a saucy smirk she mutters, "Good grief," but titillation quickly shifts to apprehension. "Gosh, is something wrong? Are you okay?" She ushers me in.

"I'm okay." I take a few tentative steps into the waiting room. "Just got this thing I need ya to look at."

That wasn't too hard.

She scratches her scalp and stifles a yawn. "Okay. What's going on?"

"The bullet's stuck."

Slack jawed at first; her mouth forms a stiff frown. Guess that woke her up. "Stuck? How do you know?"

Turning my back to her, I stretch my arm behind to pin point the spot. "Can't see it but I sure do feel it."

She sighs. Her emotions are a stew of disbelief and confusion with a touch of irritation topped off with apprehension.

She moves a step closer. "I don't see anything, either."

"Kinda figured."

It's an impasse. For what's got to be a full minute, she stands there with her arms crossed and a crooked smirk on her lips.

"Aw fuck this." Deserved or not, I ain't about to beg for her help so I turn on my heel and make for the exit.

"Are you feeling any pain?" There's a tinge of desperation in her voice as she trails behind me.

Why ya think I'm here? I don't say it because her concern is genuine in both tone and scent and because she answers for me.

"Logan, never mind. Stupid question. I'm sorry. Of course you're hurting." She moves closer, lays a soft hand on my shoulder. "Can you give me five minutes to brush my teeth and so forth?"

I angle to look over my shoulder. "Take all the time ya need."

"Thanks." She shuffles toward the compact restroom just off the clinic's waiting area. "Make yourself at home in exam three. I won't be long."

Make myself at home. In a doctor's office? Sure thing. Nix the chair, it's hard plastic back hits just the wrong spot. A couple turns on her rotating stool amuses me for about a minute. Finally, I give in and prop up on the cushioned exam table. I'd thumb through a magazine but between the teen celebrity rag sheets and an outdated video game mag – just no.

All three examining rooms share a wall with the bathroom so I hear everything from the clunk of the toilet seat to the high pitched buzz of a sonic toothbrush. From location of the noise I guess the door to the over-the-sink cabinet squeaks. There's a shuffling, a few clunks and the squeak again.

Takes six minutes but she emerges in clean wha'cha'call'em? - scrubs with her hair brushed and tied back. No make-up but she doesn't need it. She smells of mint toothpaste and soap - light on the fragrance.

"Okay, show me again where it hurts."

I do the contortionist thing once more. This time I feel her soft, warm hands press into the middle of my back.

"Are you sure it's stuck? Honestly, I can't feel anything but ribs and muscle."

"Trust me, it is. Dig your fingers in-" I reach for the spot. "-here."

"Haa-ow!" She found it.

She apologizes.

I say, "No problem."

"How do you feel about another scan?"

"Kinda figured ya'd say that. Don't suppose the one's ya did last night would work, eh?"

"Only as comparison to what's going on now."

"Right. Lead on darlin'."

xXx

Couple minutes and a cup o'coffee later, we're staring at the new scans. "This couldn't be easy, could it?" She chuckles but there's not much humor behind it. "You said you've had this happen before, right?"

I nod.

"And didn't you say you treated yourself?"

"Uh huh."

"Dare I ask?"

Ejecting a single claw, I mime gouging my hip, complete with sound effects.

Scrunching up her face, she doesn't say it but I bet she's thinking yuck.

I explain, "Problem this time is I can't get at it without makin' a helluva mess."

Fiddling with a loose strand of hair, her tone is mildly scolding. "A bullet stuck in a juncture between a rib and a vertebra and you're worried about a mess? Can you say paralysis?"

"Tough to do with an adamantium backbone."

She smacks her forehead. "True! It's not second nature for me to think about that but there's cartilage between. What if you severed through that?"

I mimic a string-less puppet.

She glances over her shoulder, "Not funny," then switches off the monitor and swings around on her chair to face me. "I guess I'll pose the obvious question. What would you like me to do?"

"Cut it out."

Cue the squinty eye joyless smirk as she stands. "This from the guy who threatened physical harm upon said physician only a few hours ago?"

I'm on my feet now. "Said I was sorry."

Her hands lock together behind her back. "And I accepted your apology. But, if I recall," she waggles a finger at me, "I did release you from my care."

I give her the same finger scolding. "If that's so, what was with the oxygen thing?"

"A momentary lapse." She raises her arms and chuckles. "You're right. I guess I'm back on the case."

"All right. Let's do this."

"Whoa! Not so fast. Before this doctor attempts any sort of surgery, foreign body removal or otherwise, I'm having more than a cup of coffee."

I shrug. "Sounds reasonable. I already ate but what say we raid the kitchen?"

"No sir. I'm going to prep you, administer anesthetic and while it takes effect," she points a thumb at herself, "_I'm_ going to raid the kitchen."

My turn for the squint eye stare. "Prep?"

"Yes, prep. As in position, drape, sterilize." Her grin's as bright as her eyes. "You know, the stuff they pay me big bucks for."

I mutter, "Jesus Christ," pace and gesture. "Let's not turn this into a major production and by the way, ain't no point using anesthetic."

"It's standard and why not?"

"Why not what?"

"No anesthetic."

"Won't work."

She goes wide eyed. "You're serious? Why?"

"Healing factor. Makes me immune, resistant or whatever ya call it. It doesn't work on me. As far as sterlizin', no point. Can't get infected with anything."

"I can get my head around no sterilization but…but… removing a bullet from your back will be excruciatingly painful-"

"I can handle it."

In a fog of apprehension, she dips her head a walks away. Standing motionless in the middle of the room, she bites her bottom lip and hugs her arms to herself. "I'm not sure I can."

I close the space between us and put my hands on her shoulders. "Listen to me. Compared to the pain I've gone through… many times before, this ain't any worse than, than taking out a splinter-"

She scoffs and shakes her head. With a gentle touch to her cheek, I guide her eyes back to mine. "Trust me. Trust me as much as I trust you."

"You trust me to do what? Cause you pain? Logan, I…I… there's got to be something. Give me a few minutes. I need to think."

xXx

"I think I have a workable solution."

It took her half an hour. My guess is she squirreled off to her office. A glass bottle of red stuff - cranberry juice? – says she detoured to the kitchen, too.

Dropping a Sudoku puzzle on the sofa cushion, I twist around to face her. "Okay."

She bounds across the room and leans her elbows on the sofa back. "I need to clarify something first."

"What's that?"

"There are notes in your record that confirm your insensitivity to anesthetic. But there are also notes warning that certain substances actually work against your healing factor-"

"Right on both."

"An anesthetic, such as lidocaine, is unlikely to have any negative effect on your healing factor."

I nod. "R'member how the imaging stuff worked or didn't?"

"Exactly."

"Where's this going?"

"Make me feel better by allowing me to inject a bit where I need to cut. Please."

She's freaked out but trying keep a handle on it. Same with me. Intrinsic paranoia of all things medical has me locked in a freak city of my own.

Staring at the ceiling, I exhale then tilt my head to the side to crack away tension. "'Zat all ya gotta do?"

"I sure hope so."

Hope so? I cop a what the fuck scowl then throw my head back against the sofa cushion. "Fine. Might as well be water but go 'head. Shoot me up with whatever that shit yer talkin' 'bout is."

There is a radical shift in her scent and posture as tension ebbs. A guarded smile lights her face as she gestures me to follow her back into what's called a procedure room. Doesn't matter that it's done up to look like the innards of a sailboat-complete with a kitschy mural of kids playing water sports, it's still a surgical suite. What the fuck have I talked myself into?

She spreads a plastic lined sheet over a padded table top. "On your stomach, please. Oh, stretch out your arms… over your head….Hmmm."

She hands over a flat pillow. "Stick this under your chin so you don't get your face all squooshed ….Perfect."

I force a chuckle. "All squooshed, izzat a technical term?"

"Absolutely."

I hear the snap and smell the stink of latex gloves. They feel cool against my skin as she presses and pokes. Some-thing tickles and I feel my flesh pucker.

"Whatcha doin'?"

"X marks the spot, or in this case a few dots and dashes where I want to inject the anesthetic and make the incision."

"Right. Spell anything in Morse code?"

"What?" Her laughter is real. "Don't know Morse code but I could draw a target."

I twist my neck, "Let's not and say we did, eh?" and wink.

She lays a gentle squeeze on my shoulder. "Mmm, sounds fair to me."

"How long this gonna take?"

"Half an hour or less, I hope."

Just as I nod approval I hear the whoosh of an elevator door as it opens adjacent the clinic waiting area. Fast as the current she generates, Electra crosses the distance from the waiting area to the torture room. "Sorry. Took longer than expected downstairs."

My question, "Aw, what's she doin' here?" is lost over Sue's asking about the downstairs delay.

Electra explains, "I wanted to make sure Ororo and Kurt were completely comfortable with Deshaun's care-"

"Good plan," Sue interjects.

Electra adds, "Oh, and Logan, I'm here to do my job," at the same time Sue says, "She's assisting me."

Propped on my elbows, I shoot them a stink eye. "Assisting you doin' what?"

Hands on their hips, both women crouch to look me in the eyes. "What do you think?" snarks Electra and I can't miss the piss and vinegar in Sue's voice. "Remove the bullet stuck in your back."

Pushing off the table, I roll to sit up. "Then we're done."

A chain of emotions flicker across Sue's face; shock, confusion, disbelief, irritation, all there for me to see and smell. Sucking in a breath, a veil of neutrality settles on her face. Locking hands behind her back, her tone might just be responsible for the sudden chill in the air. "Is there a problem?"

My guts twist in knots thinking back on the last time I suffered the ministrations from a panel of medical minds. Disinclined to discussion and itching to get the hell out of dodge, I grab my shirt and stalk out of the room. Making it as far as the door something compels me to toss a hint. "I came to you," I emphasize _you_ in word and pointed finger, "to fix this thing."

Electra, who faded silently into the background, clasps Sue's shoulder and murmurs, "I'm going below. Buzz me if you need me." Passing between us going for the elevator, she shakes her head at me and sighs.

What the hell'm I doing? I trust Electra. She's been a steady friend for about as long as I've had friends. Social retard that I am, I let her pass without so much as a sideways glance.

Parking herself on the stool, Sue props her elbows on her thighs. Chin resting on her palms, her eyes seem to peel back the layers of my soul. "Electra's a problem? Really?"

"Yeah. No. Aw fuck."

Disgusted with myself, I pace and dry wash my face. Here I go pushing people away because I'm too fucking weak to rein in knee-jerk mistrust and the rage that goes with it. Closing my eyes, I release a breath-anything to curb the vitriol I'm primed to spew. "Just wasn't plannin' on turnin' this thing into a party."

We're doing the standoff thing again. She's chewing on her bottom lip and glancing between me and the floor. I seem to be putting down roots in the doorway.

Finally, she stands and rolls her shoulders. "You know it's kind of standard to have an assistant for minor surgery."

"Yeah, I guess. Just didn't think about it. Sorry."

"It's not me you need to say sorry to."

"Right. So, ya ain't gonna do this without her?"

"I'd prefer to have her help."

"That ain't what I asked ya."

"I understand that but I'm not about to let you back me into a corner."

"Just gimme a fuckin' answer. Are you_-" _I point straight at her. "-Gonna do it? Yes or no?"

Her game face is good but she can't fool me. A racing heart and her scent says she's intimidated yet she lays down the terms in a velvety but uncompromising tone. "Yes Logan, _**I**_ am. And Electra is going to assist me. So, I think the question is, are you going to consent to your physicians' plan of care?"

Nicely done. Whose back's to the corner now? I could escalate, go unreasonable, make a total dick of myself- well more than I already have. A quick mental tally of win versus loss says it's time to suck it up.

I chuckle and shake my head. "The patient consents."

XXX

**_A/N Reviews, comments and criticism always welcome. _**


	12. Chapter 12

CHAPTER TWELVE

"What the -"

Jogging along the stone path toward the garage I notice Sue's car parked in the Marquez's pebble driveway. I check my watch. Nope, not late.

Plan was I'm supposed to fetch her from her place. The ass end of my conscience is pretending ignorance but I know what gives. She's putting space between us - and I can't blame her for doing it. Way I acted, no way in hell flowers and concert tickets'll get me out o'the penalty box.

I'm probably still on Electra's shit list too. Aw, fuck it. Guess I'll go drown my sorrows at Callaghan's.

As I punch in the unlock code for the garage door I hear a door slam behind me. Her scent and words ride the brisk breeze. She is yammering on her cell phone. Sounds like business but she manages a wave in my direction.

A minute later she hollers, "Hey, I tried to call you. Do you ever turn your cell phone on?"

I sniff real hard. No anger or fear. Maybe a whiff of irritation.

I turn to face her. "Uh, cell phone? Nah, prob'ly forgot to charge it up."

"No biggie. I was just gonna give you heads up not to pick me up."

"Teach me, eh."

She laughs. "Doubtful."

"Right. How come?'

"How come what?"

"Ya didn't want me to pick you up?"

"I didn't say I didn't want you too…."

"But that's what ya meant."

"Well…maybe."

"Maybe?"

Here come the mixed up emotions.

"Arrggh!" comes out softly as she fiddles with a strand of hair. "Okay, you've got me, but only partly. I kinda figured you might not be too keen on being with me."

I can't hold back a laugh. "Ask me eight hours ago and ya'd be right." I make my way towards her and hold my hands out. "Truth is, I'm a jerk."

Her grin and scent says she agrees but she gives me a pass. "I can't deny you scared me and from a purely selfish perspective, you kinda hurt my feelings. But, maybe I asked for it."

"I'm sorry."

"So 'm I."

"Ya got no reason to be."

"Oh yes I do. I mixed professional with personal and nearly destroyed the fragile trust we've been trying to build."

She lays a soft hand on my arm. "I won't pretend to know how hard it probably was for you to seek my help and how surprised and incredibly touched — honored actually, that you gave me another chance."

Her touch is a comfort. I search her face; breathe deep gathering the full measure of her sentiments.

"But I don't want to take your trust for granted. If I've learned anything from this it's to throw most of the book out when it comes to treating you."

"Not so fast," I counter. "You were right on with that chair and pillow thing."

"Well, thank you."

Sensing doubt, I take her hands in mine. "I'm glad you had the bal—guts to keep after me."

"Is that a thank-you?"

"Kinda." Cupping her chin, I add, "But this is," and smother her mouth with a kiss.

Hesitant at first, it takes her a few seconds before she leans against me and ups the ante with a nibble and a tongue thrust. I'm about to oblige when there's a wolf whistle and a round of applause from the Marquez's porch.

Flushed pink in the face, Sue pulls back and giggles. I shake my head and smirk at Electra.

Growling, "Wha'chu lookin' at?" Electra knows by my wink I'm messing with her.

Hands on her hips, Electra's smile is a mile wide. "A minor miracle, perhaps. Now quit with the PDA, it's almost time for supper."

Grabbing my gal around the waist, we stroll up the brick steps and join the party.

Her whispering, "Can we talk more later?" tickles my ear. Provoked by her kiss, I'm hoping for more than just talk. I answer with a nod and a wink.

xxx

"Oh my gosh," I groan as we stroll through the winter darkness. "Hanging out with you is going to kill my waistline."

Stuffed to the gills on fajitas and Tres Leches cake, I need a stretch and a walk. Logan wants a cigar and I think has reached his limit with crowded company.

He pockets the unlit cigar and wraps his hands around my middle. "Even with your coat seems just right to me." Pressing his forehead to mine, he pecks my nose with a kiss.

I laugh and say, "Thank you."

Ambling along, we're silent as I swing my arms and he finally lights up his smoke. Blech! If he thinks he's giving or getting any more kisses he's out of luck.

I sigh wishing I could quit replaying the scenes from other night. Could've, should've, blah, blah, blah. And does he really need to be so impossibly, stupidly, unmanageable? Damn! I'm an idiot and he's a jackass.

He stops in his tracks, lowers the cigar from his mouth and sniffs.

Startled, I ask, "What's a matter?" wondering to myself if we're about to be attacked by a wild animal.

"Dunno but all of a sudden you're piss off meter's gone red line."

"What?"

"Just what I said. What's up?"

"Good grief. Can't you turn yourself off?"

He raises his arms. "Search me for an on-off switch."

I huff over the double entendre'. "Well, maybe you need a tune up. I'm not pissed off about anything."

"Well somethin's a matter."

I sigh. I fiddle with my hair. "You know how I said if we hit any speed bumps…?"

"Uh huh."

I pick at an imaginary hang nail. "I'm worried we're a bit hung up on one."

Scowling, he snuffs the cigar against the heel of his boot before pocketing it. "No games, darlin'. Spill it."

"I'm just struggling with my feelings but I'm not sure it's the right time or even my place to bring it up."

He moves closer. From the gathering of his brow, he seems baffled and genuinely concerned. Gone from his voice is the impatience I heard a moment ago. "Feelings about what?"

"Yesterday. I'm not particularly proud about how things went."

"Darlin' we already covered this." He grabs my hand. "Ya got nothin' t'be ashamed of."

"Let me finish, please."

Pulling my hand out of his clutch, I explain, "I wanted so badly to treat you that I ignored the warning in your chart, ignored Cecelia's advice; I pushed you to the brink of...of violence."

"Quit beatin' y'self up. It wasn't you pushin' me to any brink. I was hurtin' and…" Lowering his chin, he scrubs at his face and mutters, "Scared."

I try not to register surprise at his admission of fear.

Anger flashes in his eyes before his lips settle in a twisted smirk. "Not scared like chicken shit 'r somethin'. Cornered kind o'scared."

I nod. "That's part of your feral nature?"

"Maybe...yeah," he huffs and looks to the sky.

His voice is low, fervent. "Goddamn fuckin' hate it sometimes. Ya know what I did when Jean tried to help me the first time? I almost choked her to death. And Reyes? I'm sure she told ya."

"No, Cecelia didn't say anything-"

I hear a sharp hissing, like metal sliding across metal. Gasping, I give Logan a wide berth as he crosses two fistfuls of claws over his chest.

"She should've." Logan's voice is as keen and menacing as the knives he carries. "I went after her with these. Not once but a couple times."

Oh crap! "So, pain and fear bring out the claws. What's the…" Trepidation becomes scorn and I almost say excuse, "…reason right now?"

He winces as the claws snap back into place. Shaking his head, he looks ashamed and murmurs, "No damn good reason."

Definitely rattled, I try keeping my voice even. "What I was saying is that Cecelia didn't say anything except what was in your chart. I chose to gloss over a few key entries."

Shamefaced becomes derisive. "Coulda got y'self hurt or killed."

Thinking, oohh, I ought to pop you one, I try de-escalating. "Maybe but the one time I felt threatened you pulled back. So now you say I shouldn't trust you?"

Frowning, his eyes are level under drawn brows. "In a certain state, no you shouldn't."

Turning on him, I set my hands on my hips. "See that's what I'm getting at. How many damn buttons do you have and how do I keep from pushing the one's that trigger your piss off meter?"

The line of his mouth tightens. "I'm talkin' 'bout way more 'n buttons 'r piss off meters. I'm talkin' 'bout something. . ."

His pitch lowers as his mouth dips into an even deeper frown. "So primal, so savage that…"

I have to listen hard to hear him whisper, "It scares the shit out of me."

I toss my hands up. "This is crazy, Logan. You're making yourself into some kind of uncontrollable homicidal maniac…"

I reach for his hands but he backs away. "All I want to do is talk about how to avoid a repeat of Saturday."

Just about to speak, he stops suddenly. Shaking his head, he looks to the ground and chuckles. "How 'bout I don't get shot?"

"Hmmm. That might work. Seriously, you know what I'm asking."

"Yeah, I do. You just keep doin' what you do. It's me that's gotta keep a handle on it."

"Can you?"

"Most times, yeah".

I nod and veer toward a pinecone on the side of the lane. Giving it a swift kick, it arcs and lands a few paces ahead. Repeating the process a few more times, I'm trying to work out in my mind what's the good sense pursuing this whatever it is with Logan.

For a few minutes he lags behind. All's quiet except for shushing of the wind in the pine trees, our footsteps crunching the gravel and my annoying phone.

I say, "I'm sorry." He shrugs allowing me to focus on another batch of newborn statistics.

Confirming the standard protocols to the nursery, I close the call and pick up the pace. Stride even with me, Logan's keeping to the opposite side of the lane.

"Ya always this busy on call?"

"Sometimes."

He grunts then we go silent again. I steal a glance at him, he steals one at me but in the evening gloom I can't see his expression well.

So lost in thought, I'm startled when he closes the space between us and says, "I really fucked things up, eh?"

"What do you mean?"

"Between you 'n' me."

I snag his jacket sleeve so he'll stop walking. A gas light pole illuminates the saddest puppy dog face I've seen in ages.

"Funny, I was worried that I'd done the same thing."

"That's never gonna happen."

I blush. "You know what happens when you put someone on a pedestal?"

"Yep."

"It kinda hurts to fall off."

"Yeah, but angels have wings don't ya know."

I laugh and punch his arm. "You are so full of it."

He grins, "So I've been told." His soulful eyes seem to study every inch of me. "So, where do we stand?"

Suddenly self conscious, I joke, "Hmm. Well, a gravel driveway about a half mile from a warm fireplace." I add, "And actually we're sitting," because we perched ourselves on a split rail pasture fence.

"Technically, we're three quarters of a mile and the nearest fireplace is another three hundred feet further." He smirks but I think the twinkle in his eyes mean to put me at ease.

It works and I chuckle. "I'll take your word for it."

Uneasiness returns causing me to yank at a thread dangling off my sleeve. My gaze track everywhere but on him. It seems like forever finding the pluck to lock my eyes to his.

"Honestly, my heart was pretty much convinced. It's my head that keeps yelling no, especially since yesterday."

"That accounts for the mixed vibes, eh."

"You're the one with the bloodhound nose."

He sniffs. "Woof!" Our laugh turns to mutual groans when my phone ruins the moment.

My focus back on Logan, gone is the levity of a moment before. "I'd be lyin' if I said I don't want ya to go with your heart. But I get what you're sayin'."

Thinking, do you really? – I mentally tick off a severely unbalanced list of pros versus cons.

Looking at me sort of lopsided, no doubt he's sensing my simmering doubts. "Wha'cha thinkin' darlin'?"

"I'm thinking about all the complications and all the ways we could be hurt."

"Want us to back things off?"

If I had any sense, I'd say yes. "Do you?"

He doesn't hesitate. "If I did, we wouldn't be talkin' right now."

Isn't that the simple truth. Complicated, dysfunctional, possibly tempting heartache, neither of us wants to turn back. Back from what though? A few dinner dates, a vague promise of intimacy?

"Ya didn't answer," staunches the flow in my mind.

"What? Oh, back things off? No, I don't think so." I hope he hears the reservation in my voice.

There's no hesitation as I hop off fence and cross my arms. "But, I'll tell ya this buster; you ever use those claws like you did a little bit ago, it's definitely over."

Stretching those rangy legs of his, he stands easily. Face to face he rests his arms on my shoulders and leans kissing close. The lamplight reveals a face etched with such bare honesty, wrenching pathos and needling remorse, I must believe his vow.

"Ya have my word."

It's me who melts and presses my mouth to his. Our tongues tangle. I bury my fingers in a thick, soft cascade of hair spilling over the back of his jacket collar.

Strong hands caress the length of my back. The same strong hands press against the small of my back, forcing our bodies together. I feel the searing, barely controlled power coiled in his body.

I'm breathless and dizzy. There's a delicious tingle in my breast. My innards feel heavy and warm. I ache with desire.

Nibbling at my chin and throat, his voice rumbles sensually, "Stay with me tonight."

Don't do this to me. "I hafta go by the hospital tonight."

"Come back when you're through."

Good sense mired in lust, my body throbbing with need, I rub myself against the bulge in his jeans. I murmur, "It'll be late."

About to reclaim his mouth, an urgent buzz breaks the enchantment. I think, dear Lord, will that thing ever shut up and reluctantly separate our mouths.

Logan doesn't release his claim on my body. "Ain't no way ya can ignore that fuckin' thing?"

Contorting to un-pocket my phone, it buzzes again. "Not if I don't want to be sanctioned by a quality assurance board."

Freeing myself, I add, "BTW, an object, like a cell phone isn't capable of carnal knowledge, whether it be lawful or unlawful," just as I connect with the call.

Love the raised eyebrows and sly grin he graces me with.

With six new babies to examine, my night is now shot to heck. I won't get through 'til the roosters wake up.

I sigh and he asks, "Gotta go?"

"Uh huh." I reach for his hand but he drapes an arm around my shoulders. His embrace feels both protective and dominating.

The trip back to my car is far shorter than I like even if I'm secretly relieved for the uninvited reality check.

He holds open the door. "Ya comin' back?"

Grasping his forearms, I knead softly. "I can't. Not tonight."

He shucks me off as if I were a hot poker. In the space of a few seconds his expression registers shock, anger, frustration and confusion.

"Why not?" His voice is rough-edged and crisp.

I pause, measuring my words for compassion and clarity. "Well, from a practical standpoint, when we make love I don't want the first time to be here. From the heart, it's because I owe it to both of us to be as sure as I can be."

I debate the value of touching him but rule it out. Bowing my head, I confess, "I'm just not there yet."

"No such thing as a sure thing darlin' but it's your call." His casual shrug belies the vivid dejection etched on his face.

"I'm sorry."

He just nods.

I'm compelled by a force unknown to reach out to touch his cheek. I feel his muscles tense beneath my fingertips but he doesn't retreat. Covering my hand with his, we indulge in a tepid good night kiss.

Climbing into my car, pangs of regret and guilt knot in my chest. He closes the door. As I roll down the window, I realize he's right, there are no sure things. I'm being selfish and unfair and he doesn't deserve it.

My fingers brush against his resting on the windows edge. "Logan, if you can't wait for me to get there I understand."

"See ya tomorrow, Susie."

It might be wishful thinking but the frown seems mellowed and I swear detect a spark in his eyes. I squeeze his hand and nod.

As I cruise slowly down the driveway, from my rearview mirror I glimpse him light up the cigar. He seems to watch me until I'm far enough away that he's swallowed by the shadows of night.

XXX

A/N: If current luck holds, I may have another chapter ready in a week or two. This next one is shaping up to be action packed because this story desperately needs it. Enough soap opera already, right? A BUNCH OF REVIEWS WOULD BE REALLY NICE, READERS.


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